Inked
by J. Metropolis
Summary: Flynn has overcome his troubled past and is now Corona's hottest tattoo artist. Business is booming and he's even got a determined band of groupies, but he's still dissatisfied with his life. It all changes when a certain girl stumbles into his parlor. (Modern AU) Rated M for sex. *Complete* (This update is an Inked drabble called "Misunderstanding")
1. Chapter 1

**Inked**

* * *

**Chapter 1**

The vocalist's throaty, angry screams mixed in seamlessly with the constant buzz of his machine as he listened to an album on replay. It was well past closing time, but the fluorescent overhead lights were still burning bright.

She had come into his parlor earlier in the week asking for Flynn Rider and had left in a huff when they told her he was working on another client. He was one of the best in business, but that wasn't why she wanted him. It was a simple design, a butterfly, one of his apprentices could've easily done it, but she had insisted that he be the one to give it to her. He'd developed quite a following with the ladies and if they kept this up, he'd make his mark on all the women of Corona.

He smirked as she trembled under his touch.

"Relax, Blondie. It's just rubbing alcohol. I haven't even started yet."

_Blondie, Baby, Goldie, Sweetheart._ He always called them some term of endearment. There was no real meaning behind it except that he'd learned it put them at ease and it was easier than remembering their names. They sure'd get pissed if he called them by the wrong one. It wasn't his fault, none of them really stood out in his head. They were all the same.

"I guess I'm just nervous. It's my first time." She bit her plump lower lip and batted her eyelashes at him. Flynn shook his head, his smirk widening.

These girls really were all cut from the same high-thread-count cloth. Young, sheltered, from wealthy families, all looking to him for their first act of rebellion. They were always of age, of course. He insisted upon it, he always checked ID. Just like he insisted they sign a consent form. He didn't need to lose his license because some punk or princess really wanted to get back at mommy and daddy.

There was nothing unique or original about the girl that sat in his chair tonight. She was pretty enough, if you were into the look she was sporting. She was tall and thin with legs that went on for miles. Her hair was long, stick straight, just begging to be pulled. Her eyes were the deepest set of blue he'd ever seen. They were probably contacts to go along with her fake lashes and collagen enhanced lips. He was pretty certain from the way the thin straps on her low cut tank top were about to snap that while it was her first time under a tattoo machine she'd already been under the knife. She'd worn a similarly skimpy outfit the first night she'd walked into his parlor. This was a girl on a mission, on a manhunt.

She wanted the butterfly on the inside of her thigh. This too was a familiar request, any excuse to hike up their skirts or drop their drawers in front of him. It was great for business to have girls lined up around the block, but it scared the collectors and enthusiasts and didn't give Flynn much of an opportunity to flex his creative muscle.

He preferred working freestyle on large swaths of skin. What he mostly worked off of was line art. It was so simple a scratcher could do it. That wasn't who he was. He was a tattoo artist. He'd spent years training under the very best, the only person he allowed to ink his own skin. This stencil tracing reminded him of when he'd first started out.

Summer was always the busiest time of year for him and lately he'd been working nonstop. It was when the fancy cruise ships pulled into the Bay of Corona bringing a flood of tourists with them. They'd barge into his parlor wanting a holiday tattoo to commemorate their vacation. He never bothered explaining to them that the term "holiday" referred to blotches in a tattoo where the ink failed to stick to the skin. At first he showed them the books with his artwork, original designs he'd taken years to develop, but they all wanted the same thing, a tattoo of Corona's sun emblem. So he stopped bringing out the books and inked stylized sun symbols until his hand was numb.

"Still doing okay there, Sunshine?" She'd picked a tough spot; the skin was really sensitive there. It would hurt a lot. He had told her as much but like everything else, she was persistent.

He always monitored his clients while he was working on them. When he looked up at her he noticed, with a small tinge of satisfaction, that this time her lip biting was earnest. It's not that he wanted it to hurt, he always went to great lengths to make sure his clients were comfortable. It was just that he appreciated the first genuine expression she'd given him all night.

If she wanted a date from him, she was barking up the wrong tree. He was a professional. He didn't date clients. There was no need to. He had no trouble meeting women outside of work and he tried to keep his bedroom drama out of his workplace as much as possible.

Inevitably his more inquisitive dates would find out where he worked. He hated when that happened. They would storm into his parlor looking to chew him out or looking for more, for third or fourth helpings of what he had to dish out.

He eventually wised up and stopped bringing them over to his place. Living above his parlor made his commute a breeze, but wreaked havoc on his love life. It was one of the many, many reasons he no longer brought dates home with him. He would insist they go to her place or to some seedy motel where they could both get their kicks without the clingy, squelchy mess of morning after sex or worse the awkwardness of the morning after breakfast.

"Is everything alright?"

Flynn realized he'd gotten so caught up in his thoughts he was wincing. The worried crease in her brow told him it wasn't exactly the look she wanted to see on the guy holding a round of needles so close to her nether regions.

While he bandaged her up he went over the aftercare instructions. He always took his time with those; the last thing he wanted was for his work to be ruined by a careless client and dissatisfied customers would tank any respectable artist's reputation.

He could tell she wasn't listening. She was staring at his lips like she hadn't eaten in days and from the looks of her that very well may have been true.

She was thin enough that he didn't have to worry about her thighs rubbing together and irritating her newly inked skin when she walked. Still, her ears perked up when he told her she'd need to get creative if she was planning on having any boyfriends over in the next two weeks. She looked positively decimated and he could tell she had planned on inviting him over that night.

When he finished he snapped the black latex gloves off his hands and threw them out in the nearby step trashcan. He removed the baseball cap he wore backwards to keep his bangs out of his eyes while he worked and placed it on a hook near the door as he escorted her out.

She was dragging her feet, reluctant to go.

"Just keep the bandage on for a couple of hours, Babydoll. You'll be alright."

He practically had to pry her hand away when she grabbed the front of his t-shirt and it took some quick maneuvering on his part to avoid a kiss on the lips. It landed on his goatee instead.

These girls always got clingy afterwards, especially the first time. It's like they felt they shared an experience with him or something, like they wanted to take him home and make more of them. This one seemed determined, he was sure she'd be back for more.

He returned a goodbye wave through the glass door as his other hand eagerly locked it and flipped the sign over so that it now read "Closed."

"Wait! You can't be closing."

He squeaked like a girl when he heard a soft voice behind him. _Damn._

He cleared his throat. "You, um, you shouldn't sneak up on a guy like that, Babe."

She muttered an apology as she slowly got up from the black leather sofa in the waiting area. He noticed she was wobbling as she put a hand down on the armrest.

She was cute, but he knew the type well. She was a princess; perfect posture, short manicured nails. The choppy, homemade haircut and thrift store clothing threw him for a loop, but he figured it must've been a new trend or something.

"Sorry, Babe. I've got a date tonight and I'm already running late." This wasn't a lie exactly. He was supposed to meet an old acquaintance, a fellow tattoo artist, at a bar across town. They had done their apprenticeship together in the same parlor before parting ways. From time to time they'd get together, but neither of them was interested in a relationship. She'd told him she'd gotten a tongue ring since he last saw her and was dying to try it out on him.

The girl in front of him started crying and well, he couldn't turn her away. Not like that. Not when she looked so lost and so vulnerable.

"Well, alright. I guess I have time for one more, a quick one." He told her as he glanced up at the clock on the wall and silently prayed his date was running late too.

She still seemed a bit shaky so he grabbed her by the shoulders and directed her to his room in the back, as he did he got a whiff of alcohol coming off of her.

He made sure to create a loud snapping noise when he put on a fresh pair of latex gloves. He wasn't going to go through with it and actually ink her. He didn't even make her fill out any paperwork. He was just going through the motions. She looked suspiciously underage and she'd had at least one drink. Alcohol and tattoo machines didn't mix well; she'd bleed all over the place. Operating next door to a pub guaranteed that there was at least one drunk jackass a night he had to turn away for that very reason.

He was just going to humor her, to scare her a bit so she'd run back to her little friends or her concerned parents. She'd hear his machine buzzing and she'd fly out of his chair. _Voila_! Problem solved. They'd part ways and he would be halfway across town and on his way to a game of tonsil hockey in no time.

He did a double take when he noticed the skin that wasn't covered up by her jeans or her purple Corona U t-shirt. It was flawless, really flawless. It was . . . _pure_, as if no one had ever touched it. For the first time he found himself wishing there wasn't a layer of latex separating them, it looked so soft, so warm, so kissable. _Whoa. Where'd that come from? _Flynn shook his head to clear his thoughts, his very inappropriate thoughts. He didn't know what was wrong with him. He'd been fine until she snuck up on him.

If she had looked woozy when she was in his front room, she looked downright tipsy reclining in his chair.

"Hey Sunshine. How much have you had to drink?" He asked casually as he started sorting through the needles, looking for the biggest and most menacing looking ones he could find. Hell, he even threw in a screw he found in a drawer. He planned on laying them out on a tray and showing them to her so she'd freak out and run out of his parlor.

"I'm not sure," she hiccupped, "a guy at the pub kept feeding them to me. The way he was hovering over me was making me uncomfortable, so I ran in here as soon as he got up to go to the bathroom."

It turned out she wasn't there for a tattoo at all. She was just looking for a place to hide and panicked when Flynn tried to kick her out.

Something in Flynn snapped. The metal tray he was holding was starting to rattle. Date or no date, he really needed to kick someone's ass.

"Come on," he told her as grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the chair.

"Where are we going?"

"To the pub, I have to bash someone's head against the wall a few times."

As expected, the place was at capacity on a Friday night. He tightened his grip on the girl's hand. He didn't want to lose her in this crowd.

He'd asked her to point out the guy that had been feeding her drinks all night, but he'd apparently split. _Damn it!_

Shorty was tending bar that night and Flynn was determined to have a few choice words with him.

He plopped her down on a bar-stool next to him, he wasn't letting her out of his sight. He leaned over the bar and called out to get Shorty's attention.

He turned to the short, brown haired girl beside him. She had started to lean to one side in her barstool and Flynn sat her back up.

Her odd behavior had gotten the attention of a white-haired man with large teeth, large nostrils and a long face, it gave him a distinctly horsy appearance.

_Great_, Flynn thought sarcastically. The last thing he needed was this guy sniffing around. Officer Max had been the bane of Flynn's existence in his younger years. He had relentlessly pursued him like a blood hound when he'd started cutting classes, and later when he graduated to petty theft. He was the reason Flynn ended up in juvy. But those years of youthful indiscretion were behind him now. He'd served his time and cleaned up his act. It didn't matter. Max still treated him like the trouble-making punk he used to be.

"What's the story, Rider?"

"Everything's fine, Officer. Nothing to see here. Hey, shouldn't you be outside handing out traffic tickets or something?"

The guy really got under Flynn's skin. The last thing he wanted was for him to catch wind of the underage drunk girl teetering next to him. He'd shut the whole place down.

Mercifully, the girl didn't utter a peep. Max gave him a glare that said,_ I've got my eye on you_, and moseyed on over to the piano to break up a brawl that had suddenly erupted.

The Snuggly Duckling was a dive bar. It smelled horrible and the beer was piss-poor, but the patrons kept coming. Flynn got along well enough with the thugs who ran the place. He'd gotten to know them well and had done most of their ink, but sometimes they did something stupid and he had to set them straight. Tonight was one of those times.

When the cherub attired barfly finally stumbled over Flynn let him have it. "Hey Shorty! What's the big idea serving drinks to an underaged kid? I mean just look at her, she -"

Flynn turned just in time to notice some punk offering to buy her another drink. He practically growled at the guy, "Beat it or I'll break both your arms."

The man didn't even wait for Flynn to finish the sentence. He turned his attention back to Shorty. "Well?! What do you have to say for yourself?"

"Honestly, Flynn. I had no idea. The girl had ID," he drawled.

"_Of course_ she did." Flynn rolled his eyes. He held out his hand to the girl, not taking his eyes off the drunk barman."Sunshine, give me your ID."

The girl reached into her back pocket and pulled out a laminated, rectangular card. He looked at it for a minute and scoffed at Shorty.

"_Rah-Pun-Zel_. It says her name is Rapunzel! That's not even a real name -"

"Hey!" Rapunzel protested but Flynn wasn't done chewing Shorty out.

"It doesn't even have a _last name_ listed here. Ever seen an ID with only a first name? And another thing, it says she won't even be 21 for _weeks_."

"You got me!" Shorty exclaimed thrusting his hands forward as if Flynn was going to cuff him.

It was pointless talking to the old tosspot. Flynn rolled his eyes again and noticed a guy cowering behind a post across the bar.

"I'll be right back, don't move." he told her. He returned five minutes later. "Here's your 40 bucks back, Sunshine. Don't bother buying any more fake IDs from that guy."

Flynn groaned. He wasn't going to make his date and she was in no condition to be left alone here. She'd almost gotten picked up right under his nose.

"Come on," he said resignedly.

"Where are we going?"

"We're going to my place. You can sober up there and call your folks in the morning."

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**AN1: **This is my first time writing a modern AU and I'm really excited about this story. I don't know a lot about tattoos, so all the lingo used here is from Google. Hopefully I didn't mess it up too badly. Please let me know what you think of it so far. A special, extra huge "thank you" to **Wolfram-and-Hart-Sauron** for betaing the story!

**AN2:** I'm going to need to raise the rating for chapter 3, so if you want to find out what happens next follow the story or look for it in the "M" section. I promise it's going to be tasteful and integral to the plot.

**AN3: **PSA - don't go drinking in bars alone and don't go home with guys you just met, they're not all going to be nice like Flynn. :-)


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

He practically had to carry her up the exterior staircase that ran along the side of his building and led to his second floor apartment. It was a no frills one bedroom, one and a half bathroom crash pad that suited his lifestyle just fine. When they got to the landing at the top, he leaned her against the siding as he fished for his key in the front pocket of his well-worn jeans.

It felt strange bringing a girl home. It felt even stranger bringing one over who wasn't a date. It had been a long time since he'd brought anyone up here and the place was in no condition to receive guests. He kept his parlor immaculate. It was so sterile you could eat off the floor. The equipment and furnishings in it were modern, sleek and in mint condition. His apartment, on the other hand, was something else entirely.

It wasn't dirty per se. There were no empty beer bottles under the bed or half eaten, day old pizza crusts hidden between the cushions. He wasn't a pig. He cleaned the place regularly, although he always put off doing laundry. The place was just shabby and in disarray. You wouldn't know it by looking at him, but he was an avid reader. Even as a kid he liked to read. So there were books everywhere and movies and CD cases, all in stacks of varying heights just waiting for someone to put them away. He kept a drafting table in the corner of his living room. There were art supplies, paints and oil pastels, and his discarded designs didn't always make it to the wastepaper basket. The charcoal and graphite sketches he'd drawn on stretched canvas were still propped up along the wall because he never got around to hanging them. Then there were the many home improvement projects - loose hinges, creaky drawers - that he never even started. It was messy and stunted just like his personal life.

He filled up a large glass of water and plopped her down on the couch so she could drink it while he changed the sheets on the bed. When she was done he filled up her glass again. He'd been smashed plenty of times and knew she'd really be hurting the next day if she didn't drink enough water.

He brought her back to his bedroom and sat her on his bed unlacing her shoes and removing her socks. He knew from experience that sleeping in jeans was not very comfortable, but she was so groggy and he wasn't going to be the one to take them off of her. He pulled the duvet back and tucked her under it. He made sure she was lying on her side before leaving the room to grab the bucket he kept in the broom closet and placing it on the floor beside her. The bathroom was part of his bedroom and about ten steps from his bed. Still, he placed the bucket there for extra insurance, in case she didn't make it.

He normally didn't wear clothes to bed, but for her sake he changed into a V-neck undershirt and a pair of gray sweatpants.

He grabbed a pillow off the bed and an extra sheet from the closet on his way out of the room. As he left, he closed the door halfway in case she needed anything and headed back to his living room.

He fell asleep in no time. She had worn him out.

###

He woke up to her face hovering over him.

"_Geez!_ You've got to stop sneaking up on me, Babe. Are you _trying_ to give me a heart attack?"

He turned on the greenish LED light on his wristwatch. It was three in the morning, a mere two hours since he'd put her to bed. In fairness to her, he probably wouldn't be strolling in here for at least another couple of hours if he had gone out like he'd planned to. But that was just it. He hadn't gone out. He'd stayed home to babysit _her_. Instead of hooking up with a woman who had no gag reflex and could tie cherry stems with only her tongue, he'd been asleep on his ratty old couch which still smelled kind of funny notwithstanding the fact that it had been two years and several gallons of fabric deodorizer since he'd found it on the side of the road and he and some of the pub thugs had pushed it up the stairs. So _yeah_, he was exhausted and more than a little annoyed with her. He had a right to be. Who the hell did she think she - -

"Flynn, I don't feel so good."

Flynn considered himself to be a man with very quick reflexes. Maybe it was the lack of sleep or the kink in his neck he was just starting to notice, but he was no match for the projectile vomit she started spewing.

"_Babe! _What'd you think the bucket was for?!" He was beyond trying to keep the frustrated whine out of his voice, but then he heard her sob.

"Oh, Sweetheart, don't cry." _Sweetheart? __Where the hell did that come from?_ He didn't recognize the softness of his own voice. _Was that . . . sympathy?_

Flynn was freaking himself out, but he didn't have time to dwell on it at the moment. He couldn't just let her stand there in his living room with sick running down her shirt . . . and his shirt. _Damn it!_

He wrapped his blanket around her and picked her up like he was transporting a rolled up carpet under his arm. It wasn't hard. She couldn't have weighed more than a large schnauzer and Flynn was stronger and more solid than his slim build suggested.

His shower stall wasn't meant for two, but it didn't matter. She couldn't be left in there alone so he crammed in behind her. He let go of her so he could reach over and turn the shower head on. When he did, she slid down the tiled wall and onto the floor because his arms were no longer there to support her. She looked miserable; her eyes rimmed red from the tears.

He had walked past the scene of a fire once. A group of spectators had already crowded around. They were entranced by the frantic movements of the firemen propping up ladders and running up hoses trying to put out the still burning building. Flynn's gaze, however, wasn't caught up by the rush of the firemen. He noticed the families huddled together, sitting on the nearby sidewalk, watching their belongings go up in flames. They all wore the same grim, helpless expression and they each had the same standard issue, gray flannel blanket thrown over their shoulders, the kind that firemen and law enforcement officers always seemed to carry with them for just such an unhappy occasion. She reminded him of those people as she clung to his threadbare blanket and began to shiver. He turned the knob a little more to the left to make the water warmer for her.

Undressing her in this sad, vulnerable state was out of the question even if sex was the furthest thing from his mind right now. He still needed to clean her up so he removed the blanket and let the water soak through her clothes. Eventually he'd need her participation to get her dry, but for now he could clean her up without interrupting her catatonic state.

He didn't have any body wash. He didn't use the stuff. He preferred the generic bar of soap he picked up during his infrequent trips to the drugstore to the overpriced, over-fragrant body wash that was marketed to lonely frat boys and obnoxious punks on TV. Still, he couldn't exactly rub a bar of soap all over the front of her shirt; that might be misconstrued as groping, so he grabbed the next best thing, his shampoo bottle. He emptied its contents down her shirt and watched as the light blue goop slowly made its ways down her torso, following more or less the same path as her vomit.

He picked her up again, this time holding her up by the elbows as he stood behind her and she bore the brunt of the water pressure from his shower head.

He turned her away from the stream of water, shielding her with his own body, only after she had started coughing.

"Are you alright?" He whispered in her ear as he held her.

"I'm so . . . sorry, Flynn." she said in a shaky voice as she used the heel of her palm to wipe her tears away.

Sorry didn't begin to cover it. She had cockblocked his date, interrupted his sleep and thrown up all over him, his couch, and herself, before the sun had even come up. Yet he couldn't bring himself to stay mad at her. At that moment, she looked so small, so wretched, and so alone in this world that all he wanted to do was to hold her and keep her safe. He wasn't sure where these protective feelings were coming from, but they were definitely there.

"It's okay, Rapunzel." He was through with the cutesy monikers. He knew her name, he could acknowledge that fact. He wasn't going to mess up and call her by the wrong one. She wasn't one of his groupies down at the parlor. He had brought her home. And though it had been begrudgingly at first, he was happy she was here with him. The thought of her being outside, vulnerable to the grit beyond his apartment walls made his own stomach churn.

"I'm not mad at you," he told her as he turned her around to face him. He pushed her hair away from her face, as he bent down so he could be at eye level with her. "Are you feeling better?"

She gave him a small nod, but then winced. That told him that her head hurt, and he wasn't surprised. She was in for a killer hangover tomorrow morning.

He gave her some aspirin and handed her his toothbrush, before turning his back to her to rifle through the lopsided built in shelves in the bathroom for a towel fit for company. He surprisingly didn't mind sharing his toothbrush with her. It was a no brainer. It was the only one he had. He didn't bring anyone here, so he didn't keep a spare and considering that she'd already thrown up over his shirt and his sheets and his couch, they'd already reached a certain level of familiarity. He even made a mental note to pick up a toothbrush for her on his next trip to the drugstore, until he realized that was insane. She was only staying one night, she wasn't moving in with him. The sleep deprivation must've addled his brain. At least that's what he told himself.

He handed her a towel that at one point had been peach. It was frayed around the edges, but it was clean and free of stains.

He closed the bathroom door behind him to give her some privacy while she toweled off. He went straight to his dresser to find something for her to wear. It wasn't hard. He had neglected to do laundry and only a t-shirt and a ribbed, tanked topped undershirt greeted him when he pulled the knob to open the second drawer from the top. He didn't fare any better in his underwear drawer and pulled out his last clean pair of boxers for her to wear until he could wash her clothes in the morning. He took his own wet clothes off and put on a pair of flannel pajama bottoms that were still clean precisely because he didn't wear pajamas to bed.

The lights in his bedroom were off, but there was no need to flip the switch, or so he thought. Rapunzel hadn't closed his window shades and the room glowed red from the neon sign of the Chinese restaurant across the street. That and the light from underneath the bathroom door had been enough for him to rummage through his dresser, but he nearly tripped when he started walking about looking for his laundry basket. He kicked the bucket he had so thoughtfully laid out for her a few hours earlier, cursing under his breath as he made his way around the room. He really should've cleaned it up, but he hadn't been expecting an overnight guest. He found the beat up old plastic basket, ironically enough, under a pile of dirty clothes. He added his wet clothes to the mix and carried it with him as he headed back toward the bathroom.

He knocked on the door and she opened it just wide enough for him to fit an arm through it. He cautiously handed her his boxers and his punk rock concert tee and silently prayed to whoever was listening that she'd be able to keep down whatever contents were left in her stomach. It was his favorite shirt. He'd had it for ages and had washed it so many times it was as soft as down. He'd never lent it out before, but what choice did he have? He couldn't very well let her wear the undershirt. The armholes alone would make for an indecent, yet tantalizing view.

His shirt was like a dress on her and the boxers were so big she had to roll up the waistband several times over just to keep them from falling down. He picked up her wet clothes and his blanket off the bathroom floor and placed the laundry basket by the front door in the living room. He'd deal with it in the morning.

He couldn't go back to sleep on his couch, not after she'd baptized it with whatever she'd had to drink that night at the pub, so he crawled into bed, keeping a wide distance between them, and passed out.

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**AN1: **Thank you to everyone who's read, reviewed, followed, and favorited this story. Please review, I really look forward to hearing what you guys think.

**AN2: **The rating is going up to "M" in the next chapter. When that happens, you'll need to follow or check the "M" section for updates.


	3. Chapter 3

**Warning: This chapter is rated M. **

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**Chapter 3**

Flynn woke up the next day under the harsh glare of sunlight. His was the first building at the top of the block and his bedroom window faced east which meant that he had an unhindered, unobstructed view of the sun every morning. He really should've remembered to pull down the shades before passing out last night. The room's brightness didn't seem to bother his bedmate who was sleeping soundly on the other side of the bed. Flynn groaned as he remembered the mess that awaited him in the living room. There was no use putting it off, so he got out of bed and headed straight for the shower.

He sponged off the couch and doused it with an entire bottle of fabric deodorizer hoping it was enough to get rid of the smell when it dried up. If not, he'd have to go down to the furniture store and buy a new one. He penned her a note and left it on the kitchen counter under a bottle of aspirin. She was going to have one hell of a hangover when she woke up.

As he made his way downstairs he noticed some boozer was still asleep on the bottom step of his staircase. It was to be expected living next door to a disreputable pub with nothing but a narrow alleyway separating the two buildings, but Flynn usually wasn't up this early enough to see it.

###

He leaned forward, resting his tatted forearms on his knees as he sat on a white plastic chair in the laundromat watching his clothes roll around with her t-shirt, undergarments and jeans through the porthole window of the dryer. He didn't have a washing machine or dryer in his apartment for the same reason he still had a dilapidated couch: it wasn't necessary for the parlor. When he first started out he had invested all his time and everything he made back into his business. This meant that he'd bought a new leather couch for the parlor and made due upstairs with one he found on the side of the road. He'd even selected the building because he knew he could turn the first floor into a wicked tattoo parlor. It was on a busy street with a lot of foot traffic a few short blocks from the wharf. The first floor had two large floor-to-ceiling windows just perfect for displaying his designs and attracting a crowd. The second floor apartment that came with it had been an afterthought, an unexpected bonus.

Now that he was established, had paid off the mortgage, and his bank account certainly wasn't hurting for cash he could've afforded to move out or spruce up the place, but old habits die hard. He'd even ignored the broken towel rack in the guest half bathroom, the peeling paint and the lopsided shelves. These were cheap, easy fixes, but he just didn't feel compelled to do anything about them. It was like he didn't want to deal with his life outside the parlor. It was like he'd poured himself into his work and let his personal life fall by the wayside.

###

He was out of shampoo so he stopped by the drugstore on his way back from the laundromat. He did end up buying her a toothbrush. He rationalized that he was doing it to be nice, it's not like she was moving in or anything.

###

He was hit by the strong smell of cleaning agent as he turned the key to the front door of his apartment, laundry basket in tow. It was like an entire forest of pine trees had died in there.

He was even more surprised to find the girl he'd expected to be doubled over and holding a cold compress to her head on her hands and knees singing cheerfully as she scrubbed the kitchen floor. She was still in his rolled up boxers and precious concert tee. She'd found a small, purple Corona flag in one of his drawers and was wearing it as a handkerchief on her head, like a peasant or milkmaid, to keep her short hair out of the way while she cleaned.

"Good Morning!" She beamed. It was more a declaration than a greeting and the smile she gave him was almost blinding. It was like the sun itself had greeted him.

"Are you okay there?" He asked, eyeing her suspiciously as he dropped the basket on the counter. It now held two neat, even stacks of clean laundry.

He picked her up off the floor by the elbows surreptitiously inspecting the t-shirt she was wearing for any bleach stains or discoloration and breathing a sigh of relief when he found none.

"Well, you should shower," he suggested, more for the shirt's benefit than her own. He handed her a fresh towel and her now clean clothes and she practically skipped to the bathroom.

Flynn shook his head. She was much too bright eyed and bushy tailed for this ungodly hour, especially given her condition last night.

He quickly opened the windows and the sliding door that led to the small balcony thinking that maybe she'd inhaled too much pine scent and was high on the fumes. He also shook the bottle of aspirin he'd left out for her to see if maybe she'd taken too many.

He looked around and noticed she'd had a busy morning. She had left his varying stacks of stuff alone, but his floors never looked better. They practically gleamed and glowed and she'd even been able to get rid of not only her scent, but also the old scent on the couch.

He began to put away the cleaning supplies she'd used.

_Well, she finally found a use for the bucket_, he thought humorlessly as he picked it up and emptied its contents, a mixture of cleaning solution and water, down the kitchen sink.

She was still cheerful after her shower and Flynn was beginning to think that she just had a naturally sunny disposition.

_There's no sense in sending her off on an empty stomach_, he thought. Now that he knew she wasn't a minor, that the ID had been fake, but that the information on it was real, he was less angsty about getting her home.

He asked her what she liked as he was placing the order and almost dropped the phone when she told him she'd never had Chinese before. When he recovered, he ordered the usual and left her at his place when he went to go pick it up.

The Chinese restaurant was on the next block, directly across from his bedroom. A cobblestone street ran between the two buildings. He knew the family that owned the place fairly well, having ordered from there at least three times a week. Like him, they lived on the second floor above their business. It was a common living arrangement in this neighborhood. Most of the buildings here were two-story structures and rent was steep this close to the wharf. Even the pub thugs lived above The Snuggly Duckling, at least that's what Flynn supposed. The second floor of the pub was ostensibly an inn, but the place was so wretched he doubted anyone ever stayed there. The thugs were always around and the pub never closed, so he figured they must live there too.

He'd been coming to this restaurant for years, but he'd never actually eaten inside. Bringing a date here was out of the question. He'd always picked up his orders or taken delivery to his home or work. The family's eldest child had just started Corona University and liked to shamelessly flirt with him when her parents weren't looking. They also had a son, a nice boy, who bussed the tables. He was quiet and kept to himself. The matriarch, who everyone in Corona including Flynn called "Ma," was a good-natured busybody who loved to play matchmaker with her customers. She was the reason he left Rapunzel at home. She claimed to be responsible for over half of the marriages in Corona and she liked to show him the various wedding invitations she'd received over the years. She collected them like some people collected stamps and kept them in three ring binders inside protective sleeves_. Don't worry Mr. Flynn, I find you a nice girl to settle down with. Then you get married and have babies_, she'd always tell him in her odd syntax. She'd say this as she was handing him his order, the way most shopkeepers would say, "Thank you, come again."

He sat on a bar-stool across from Rapunzel as they ate on his kitchen counter. The counter was in the shape of a peninsula that jutted out and separated the kitchen from the open floor plan of the living room. They sat on opposite sides of it so that Flynn's barstool was in the kitchen and Rapunzel's was in the living room.

The sound she made when she bit into an egg-roll for the first time was downright sinful and when she closed her eyes in delight and started slowly licking the duck sauce that had dribbled down her arm, he had to look away or he'd be hiding behind the counter the whole night.

He showed her how to use chopsticks, which he'd long mastered having visited Ma's as frequently as some people went to the gym, and when her dumpling kept falling back onto her plate he grabbed forks for both of them.

While he was clearing the plates and putting the leftover oyster pails in the fridge, he suggested they watch a movie. He wasn't scheduled to work tonight, so really there was no rush. It wasn't that he enjoyed her company and didn't want to see her go. This is what he told himself, anyway.

He had a massive movie collection that was rivaled only by the number of CDs he owned and was flabbergasted to learn she'd never heard of a single one of his film titles. His favorite genre by far was campy cult horror classics. He'd discovered them as a kid and still loved watching them as an adult. He knew they weren't great works of cinematography. They were schlocky and ridiculous and completely awesome.

He picked his favorite one for her to watch and she seemed really into it until halfway through the film when their fingers accidentally touched in the popcorn bowl that separated them on the couch. It was like a jolt of current had run between them and after that he, quite frankly, didn't care if the protagonist outwitted those flesh eating zombies and made it out of that isolated cabin in the woods alive.

He approached her cautiously, licking the salt off her lips until she let him inside. It was one long, continuous kiss that left them both gasping for air.

She looked astonished at first and he was about to utter an apology when she hooked her fingers inside the collar of his t-shirt pulling him down and closing the distance between them with such enthusiasm that it sent the bowl and its contents flying across the living room floor. Rather than close his eyes, Flynn widened them in surprise.

The kiss she gave him was an imitation of the one he'd just given her, except coming from her it felt playful and innocent. She'd licked his lips like he had done to hers even though his mouth was already open to her. He grinned against her lips when he realized what she was doing. He'd never had a girl kiss him back in this manner. It was quirky and different and he definitely liked it.

His hands made their way to her delicate face and his fingers came to rest behind her ears. She moaned into his mouth as he kissed her, making his own body twitch in response.

He leaned forward against her, pinning her between himself and the armrest on the couch.

He fisted his hand in her hair and she began doing the same to his. The way she was mirroring back his advances was driving him wild.

Both his nipples were pierced, but he wasn't wearing the captive bead rings. Still, it was a really sensitive spot on his body and one most women neglected, so he was pleasantly surprised when she didn't. Of course, at the moment he had his own hands up her shirt and was lavishing hers with skillful attention.

He couldn't take much more of this teasing. He felt famished and he wanted her. He wanted her in a way that made him question whether he had truly ever wanted anything before in his whole life.

"Wanna go back to my room?" He whispered against the smooth skin of her neck.

"Okay," she panted.

They removed various articles of clothing off of each other's bodies in between searing, open-mouthed kisses as they made their way towards his bedroom, stopping briefly to make out next to the hall closet along the way.

By the time he nudged her onto the bed and settled himself between her thighs, she'd lost her shirt and her pants and he was wearing prominently tented boxers.

He unclasped her bra and his eager hands and mouth explored newly bared skin with an earnestness he didn't know he possessed. He rubbed and licked and sucked and grazed his teeth until he had her worked into a tizzy, until she was panting his name and begging him not to stop whatever it was he was doing to her. He practically burst with male pride when she told him no one had _ever_ made her feel this good before.

He tugged down her underwear and she began doing the same thing to his. When he'd completely undressed her, he stood up to admire his work, to admire the view that had just sprawled out before him while he finished removing his boxers. He met her gaze through heavily lidded eyes and smirked as he saw her hungry line of sight migrate south.

"_Wwwhat is that?!_" She practically jumped out of her skin, her gaze frozen in place as if his body had some sort of hypnotic power over her.

Flynn's smirk widened. He was used to getting reactions like this from some of his dates. It was a nice long stroke to his ego.

"It's called an apadravya," he explained as he grabbed a condom from the top drawer of his nightstand and unrolled it over himself.

_"Apa-what?!"_

She continued to gawk, her jaw having already dropped to the floor. She was now starting to worry him. In a matter of seconds she'd run the gamut from astonished to downright scared. He didn't think her eyes could get any bigger. He sat down next to her and tried to put her at ease.

"It's not going to hurt, I promise."

"See," he ran his thumb over the shiny silver bead at the top as if to prove there were no sharp, hidden edges, and shuddered, unable to suppress his own pleasured groan.

She did not look convinced, so he pulled the condom off, tossing it aside and reluctantly began to unscrew the top bead of his barbell.

"I've never had a girl ask me to take it out before, usually they're really eager to try it," he told her matter-of-factly as if he were discussing the virtues of rounds and flats. He tried to convince her that it would increase her pleasure, but truth be told having it on felt incredible for him too.

The silver barbell landed on his nightstand with a heavy metal clang, like he'd just dropped a handful of coins on a table and he pulled the drawer open again to grab another condom.

She eventually relaxed when he resumed kissing her. After a few heated touches, she was mewling again and he was gobbling up each delectable little sound.

Soon she crawled onto his lap and he began massaging her ass. He'd always been an ass man and hers was magnificent. He'd never felt anything like it.

He splayed his hands on either side of her, allowing him to hold her upright while at the same time freeing his thumbs to draw circles over her ribcage, casting wide hoops that coiled tighter and tighter until he reached her taut peaks, leaving invisible trails he dutifully traced with his tongue and lightly grazed with his teeth. She made his mouth water and he smirked into her chest when she placed her hands over the back of his head, holding him in place.

She let out a frustrated little whine as she squirmed in his lap as if she wanted to get closer to him, but couldn't quite figure out how, so he moved her leg over so that she now sat astride him. When their bodies touched, with nothing but a thin layer of latex separating her from her new found scratching post, he felt a jolt of electricity run down his spine causing him to bite down a groan. He could feel her breath on his face, now shallow and coming in quickly.

"Are you ready, Babe?"

"Okay."

She was soaked when he wedged his hand between them and he met her gaze as he pushed a finger inside her. He didn't make it very far. He was surprised by the tightness and even more surprised by the sharp intake of breath followed by the cry of pain that came out of her.

"_Jeezus_! Babe!"

It suddenly dawned on him that she wasn't a quirky kisser, but an inexperienced one. That her light, erratic caresses were not nuanced, they were novice. That it hadn't been his barbell she was intimidated by.

He had assumed she'd done this before. His heart was hammering in his chest as he realized what _he_ had almost done. He felt sick as his mind went over the play-by-play, horrified by his actions and more than a little angry at her for not telling him.

He wanted to yell at her for almost taking her innocence, for making him feel like a scoundrel, like he'd taken advantage of her, like he'd been lied to.

"How far were you going to let me go before you told me?" He asked trying hard not to sound demanding.

He pushed the covers onto her chest; suddenly he felt exposed and keenly aware that they were both naked and that she was still straddling his waist.

When she didn't immediately respond to his question, he pressed her for an answer.

"I didn't know where it was going. It felt so good, I . . . didn't want you to stop."

Her voice was small and shaky and he lost his edge. Once again she had disarmed him without even trying.

"Rapunzel, you _have_ to tell a guy something like this." He lifted her chin and pushed her hair out of her eyes, so she would look at him, "I could've . . . I could've really hurt you." The thought sickened him further. He _never_ wanted to hurt her.

After a few moments, he broke the silence that had spread like a gulf between them.

"Rapunzel," he sighed, "this is a _really_ big deal. You get one shot at this, you don't want to waste it on someone like me."

He thought back to his own first time, it was nothing special. He'd lost it in the backseat of a car, to a girl whose name he couldn't remember. He didn't know what the fuck he was doing, and pleasing her . . . well, he didn't have a prayer. He'd lasted all of three seconds. Hell, he almost blew his load just trying to get the condom on. His one saving grace was that she had let him try again and he had somewhat redeemed himself.

He didn't want that for her. She was a nice girl. She deserved better. She deserved meaningful kisses and feelings and romantic declarations and flowers or poems or cards or whatever shit people in committed relationships gave each other after they'd made love for the first time. He didn't know, he'd never done it.

Growing up, he'd never had "the talk" and he'd never thought he'd ever have a reason to give someone "the talk," and he especially never thought he'd give someone "the talk" while they were both naked, in his bed, after a round of heavy petting. He thought last night had been a painful, miserable experience. He'd been wrong; this was a thousand times worse. Last night had been a walk in the park in comparison. _This girl was unreal_.

They both got dressed in silence and he waited until she fell asleep before putting his barbell back in and heading back to the couch. He felt disgusted with himself and really grateful that the fates had intervened and this night hadn't ended in an even bigger disaster.

* * *

**AN1: **I'll save you the very NSFW google search; an apa is a male piercing that runs top down; an ampa runs sideways. I didn't know that before this story either. I just want to say I did not set out to write dub con. I'm a big fan of informed consent, I include it in all my stories that involve them getting it on. It's just that Rapunzel's completely in the dark about sex at this point and Flynn's mistaking her "monkey see, monkey do" approach as some kind of heightened level of sexual proficiency. He's asking her all the right questions, but she doesn't know what he's talking about so she keeps saying yes to his escalating suggestions. Rest assured, he wouldn't have done ANY of this with her if he'd known how sheltered she was.

**AN2: **I'm sorry if I disappointed you with the _coitus interruptus_ scene; I know some of you were looking forward to reading smut. I didn't chicken out; this is exactly the scene I had in mind when I set out to write this chapter. It was too much, too soon for them and their relationship needs to develop more in this story before any of that stuff happens; otherwise it feels forced and unnatural; I think it needs to happen organically between these two so that it doesn't seem contrived.

Thanks for the new reviews, favs and follows. I hope you continue with the story.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

The next morning she came clean. She told him she'd been grounded her entire life. At first he thought it was just a figure of speech, but it turned out she wasn't exaggerating. She'd been locked away in an old, abandoned tower in a deep and secluded part of the nature preserve that was on the other side of the bay. She had been isolated from the outside world and the only person she'd ever known was her mother, who seemed like a real witch to Flynn the more she told him about her. The whole thing was like a grim fairytale or a plot from one of his horror flicks.

As a means of keeping her captive, the woman forbade Rapunzel from ever cutting her hair so that it had trailed behind her like a cathedral train that would bunch and get in the way and make it difficult for her to move about. The woman had told her there were tigers and jackals and all sorts of ferocious beasts who would tear her to shreds if she ever tried to climb down the tower. Rapunzel had always thought this didn't make any sense seeing as how Mother would come and go freely without so much as a snag on her dress, but she'd learned long ago _never_ to question Mother. Flynn knew this was bullshit. Kids went camping in those woods all the time; there was even a bridge between the island and the mainland. Her mother sounded like a cartoon villain and Flynn's hatred for the woman only intensified.

He'd known a lot of seedy characters in his life, but he didn't know anyone who was capable of this level of evil. He'd never heard of someone who locked away their child and manipulated them and scared them into fearing everyone and everything the outside world had to offer just so they wouldn't leave home.

He had to admire Rapunzel for being brave enough to chop off her own hair and leave behind everything she'd ever known. Flynn felt like an even bigger asshole for almost sleeping with her last night. She hadn't even kissed a man before him and he'd tried to bed her.

He knew a thing or two about dysfunctional homes having aged out of the foster care system and there was no way he was sending her back to that toxic hellhole. He also knew what it was like to have no safety net, to have no one to fall back on, no one who cared about you. He'd been there; he'd been in her shoes before. She reminded him of the person he once was. A lost, lonely boy who'd just wanted someone to love him; that kid could've really used a break. Of course, he didn't share any of this with her; he didn't share this with anyone.

"Look. I'm not going to kick you out. You can stay here until you figure stuff out."

"Thank you, Flynn."

The hug she gave him made him feel warm inside. He couldn't imagine anyone mistreating some like her. She was so nice and such a sweet person; he really wanted to help her.

###

He took her to the place where he shopped for his own clothes. It was a small boutique, trading in hard to find labels. The selection was choice and carefully curated. It was edgy and different, without being trendy. Corona had been spared the big box retailers, the island being so small; but, it still had the mainstream shops that catered to the masses, or rather, the rest of the small population that was fortunate enough to live here. Flynn avoided those places like the plague.

He'd met the shopkeeper when she had come into his parlor for a tattoo celebrating the birth of her third child. She was a friendly, outgoing gal who was closer to Flynn's age than Rapunzel's. They'd hit it off right away and he liked her style so he started frequenting her shop. Her husband was a yogi and always tried to coax Flynn into taking one of his classes whenever he saw him. So far, Flynn had been successful in politely declining the invitations.

He could tell the shopkeeper was surprised to see him bring a girl into the store and grinned slyly when she later gave him a smile and an approving thumbs up as they both stood in front of the moss-green, thick velvet curtain waiting for Rapunzel to come out of the fitting room.

He helped her pick out a couple of sundresses, several tops, and three pairs of jeans, ones whose darker wash and narrower cut brought her style up to the current decade, unlike the ones she had on. He left her to pick out her undergarments on her own while he loitered aimlessly in the men's section, pretending to browse through the new arrivals. When she finished, he hurriedly grabbed three shirts off a display table and rushed to meet up with her at the register.

He didn't really need anything, but that had been the pretext he'd used to get her to come here and so he needed to buy something for himself to keep up appearances. It would've been weird if they'd made the trip to the clothing store just for her. The shopkeeper raised an eyebrow and gave him a smug, knowing smirk as she folded three identical fitted men's button-downs and placed them into one of the store's distinctive glossy bags with purple grosgrain handles while he steadfastly insisted he liked the Tattersall pattern so much he just had to have three.

She tried to pay for her things, but he knew the forty bucks he'd gotten back for her at The Snuggly Duckling weren't going to take her very far in a place like this. Besides, he'd planned on treating her all along. He told her it was only fair that he pay because she had exactly one pair of underwear and he refused to do laundry every morning, so really she was doing him a favor by letting him buy her this stuff.

###

When they got back, he moved some of his own clothes around in the partially shelved walk-in closet to make room for her new purchases and designated the second drawer from the top of his dresser for her underwear. Flynn tried not to think about the fact that this looked an awful lot like she was moving in with him as opposed to just crashing for a bit until she got back on her feet; but then again, he wasn't in any rush to see her go and she could stay as long as she'd like, as far as he was concerned. He didn't even think he would mind sleeping on the couch in the living room.

They polished off the leftover Chinese food while watching another one of his kitschy horror flicks. He grimaced when he caught sight of a stray popcorn kernel by the foot of his scuffed-up old coffee table. One he had neglected to pick up when he had cleaned the apartment earlier. It was a remnant from when she'd toppled the popcorn bowl in her zeal to kiss him last night, back when things looked promising between them and before they got awkward, really, really awkward.

Suddenly feeling self-conscious, he scooted away from her and melded himself to the armrest on his end of the couch. He snuck a peek at his new housemate, who appeared blissfully unaware of his own discomfort. She sat with her legs tucked under her and an oyster pail in hand trying to fish out a piece of Szechuan chicken with her chopsticks, determined to learn to use the new eating utensils. Watching her poke around a waxed food container with a pair of wooden sticks was inexplicably fascinating to him; he could've done it all day long. But he knew he would get caught if he kept staring at her so he turned his attention back to the movie.

It wasn't a great mystery to him why he liked horror flicks so much. As a kid, they had been a sort of coping mechanism, a way to minimize the horrors in his own life by comparison. _See, you don't have it so bad; at least you're not being chased by cannibalistic underground dwelling zombies._ It was a stupid thought, but then again he had been just some dumb kid trying to get by. He wondered if they held the same appeal for her.

As an adult, he no longer found them scary, they were low budget and unrealistic and completely hilarious. They were an escape from the boredom that was his increasingly unfulfilling personal life. He didn't get it. He thought he was living his dream. He was no longer a fuckup. He was doing what he loved and he was wildly successful at it. He was surrounded by people, admiring employees, devoted clients, crazed fangirls, even the thugs next door tolerated him, but he still felt empty and alone.

He anxiously glanced out the window at the fading sun and felt a tinge of longing. He was going to have to go to work soon; he was going to have to leave her. It wasn't that he didn't trust her to be in his apartment alone. He had nothing tangible to hide. She could rummage through his things to her heart's content, for all he cared. It was just that he'd had a really nice time with her today. She was actually kind of fun when she wasn't drunk, or vomiting, or crying, or making him feel like a perv. He liked being around her. He liked the way she made him feel, warm and happy, like he'd been lying out in the sun.

"Look, I know this sounds crazy, but do you want to go to work with me?"

###

Flynn felt a strange sense of pride introducing her to the people he worked with and showing her around the place even though she'd been there a mere two nights prior; a lot had happened between them in such a short time.

He worked with a tattooist, two apprentices, and a snarky receptionist. The tattooist was in his mid-fifties; he'd once had a family and his own parlor, but lost both of them to a gambling habit and a bottle of whiskey. He'd been straight-edge for years now and the others looked up to him as a sort of mentor who dispensed sage advice. Flynn saw him as a cautionary tale. He was a quiet man, who did good work, made nice clean lines. He shouldered a lot of the work in the parlor, but lacked Flynn's creativity and artistic talent.

The other three were inseparable and not much older than Rapunzel. They worked hard and partied like it was a second job. There was always some sort of drama going on between them. It reminded Flynn of a three ring circus which he tried to avoid at all costs. The receptionist could accurately be described as a multi-car train wreck and had an on-again-off-again boyfriend who Flynn once had to ruff up. He suspected she also used one or both of the apprentices as stand-ins, but that was their business; as long as it didn't affect his business, he didn't get involved. On occasion they'd invite him to go out with them; Flynn almost always declined. He liked keeping his work and personal life separate and never felt older than when he went out all night with this calamitous triad.

Work was always chaotic, hectic, and busy and tonight was no exception. As soon as his first appointment arrived, Flynn knew he wouldn't see Rapunzel until closing time. He felt bad leaving her to her own devices, but his appointment book was jammed packed and had been for weeks.

His last client handed him what he thought was tattoo flash from one of the parlor's binders until he looked at it. It consisted of swirls of leaves and vines and stylistic renditions of owls and bears and pheasants and in the middle danced a girl with impossibly long, golden tresses. He'd never seen anything like it. It was beautiful and fresh and vibrant. It was bursting with life. The client was a collector who sometimes collaborated with other artists and brought the designs in for Flynn to finalize and execute.

"This is . . . this is really impressive. Which parlor did you get this from?"

"What do you mean which parlor? I got it here."

Flynn stared at the man stupidly, like he'd just told him he'd found the crown jewels under his floor boards.

"That artist you hired, the cute one with the weird haircut, she drew it for me while I was in the waiting area."

"_Rapunzel_? Rapunzel drew this for you?"

"Yeah, that's the one. That's quite a hire you made, some talent. Nice girl too. She's a keeper."

As he worked off of Rapunzel's design, Flynn was taken aback by the level of detail and originality in her design. It was even more beautiful coming out of his machine than it had appeared on paper.

It turned out that the receptionist had given Rapunzel some paper and colored pencils and sat her down in the front waiting area of the parlor, purportedly to keep her busy until Flynn finished his shift. In reality, it was to separate her from his apprentices who were circling around her like a pair of sharks. They were competing against each other for her attention and it was making the receptionist jealous. He'd have to set Tweedledee and Tweedledum straight later.

He had no idea she could draw and he was blown away by her talent. Flynn insisted on paying her for the design she made tonight. Clients always paid extra for original designs and this one had paid handsomely for hers; that money belonged to her. She suggested that maybe she could earn her keep by making drawings for the parlor for free. Flynn flat out refused. It was out of the question. It's not like he paid rent or had a mortgage on his apartment; it wasn't costing him anything to have her live there. In the end, she agreed to create a binder of her designs for him to display at the parlor and he would pay her a royalty each time a client requested one of her designs. He suspected his already booming business was about to explode.

* * *

**AN1: **I was a little nervous about moving this story over to the M section for fear that no one would read it once it stops showing up on the Tangled K-T page; but I got a couple of more reviews and new followers, so yay! Thank you! **IseeButterfly**, I got the idea for this story from a fan manip of a goth looking Flynn and Rapunzel. I think Flynn had tattoos and Rapunzel had black lipstick and a lip ring, I forget the specifics. If I find it, I'll post a link to it on here. I removed the goth element from the story, but liked the tattoo idea _a lot_. I wanted Flynn to have an occupation other than dashing rogue, so I gave him some artistic talent and his own tattoo parlor. I realized as I was browsing the internet for tattoos that tatts and body piercings go hand-in-hand. I thought it would be funny to have a scene where Flynn thinks Rapunzel is freaking out about his piercing when in fact she's freaked out about his "package," hence chapter 3. It's the real reason Flynn has a piercing in this fic. I picked the apa because, like Flynn, it has a reputation for being good with the ladies. ;-) I have no idea if that's true or not, but holy hell poor Flynn that looks painful. As for me personally, I'm kind of indifferent about tattoos. Some of my friends have them, I don't have any. It's no big deal.

**AN2:** For those of you who are concerned about the M rating of this story, I plan on including a warning at the top of every chapter where there is M rated material. Just to be clear, the "M warning" will _not_ apply to chapters where there are merely sexual references. It will apply only to chapters where there is sexual activity. For those of you who are reading this story _because_ it has an M rating, the M warning will benefit you too. You can skip the fluff and get to the good stuff. Thanks for sticking with me guys. Please continue to review, fav, follow, and tell your friends.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

His shift ended at midnight. Now that she worked there too, he would insist on leaving the parlor on time. Any late night stragglers could get lost, get an appointment from his receptionist, wait in line for the tattooist or take their chances with one of his apprentices, for all he cared. Delaying their departure was unfair to her. It wasn't like she had set hours; she could come and go as she pleased or create her designs from home in her purple and pink polka-dot pajamas, if she felt like it. He knew that she mimicked his work schedule so that they could spend their free time together and he always looked forward to free time now that she was here. There was no way he was going to squander that just to tattoo some bozo who couldn't tell time well enough to make it to his place of business during normal working hours.

Before Flynn met Rapunzel, he liked to unwind after work in the bars on the other side of the island, always fond of keeping as much distance as possible between his social life and his personal life. These were lavish spots frequented by savvy locals and well-heeled business travelers alike. The lighting in these places was always low making it less likely that he'd run into someone he knew. It allowed him to blend into his surroundings when he was feeling less than social, or maybe make a lady friend for the night, if he were so inclined.

Of course, now that Rapunzel was here, his watering hole had moved closer to home . . . _a lot_ closer to home. For reasons he still could not fathom, she liked the pub thugs, _a lot_. For reasons that were completely obvious to anyone with a pair of eyes and ears and a heart, they were very, very fond of her. So on most nights they would stop at The Snuggly Duckling before heading home.

She would best everyone at darts, lend a sympathetic ear to Big Nose's latest tragic tale of unrequited love, or sing a rousing duet with Hookhand on the piano, and Flynn would try his hardest not to sulk, tatted arms crossed over his chest. He was _not_ jealous of a ragtag team of ruffians with questionable hygiene and not a full set of real teeth among them.

Rapunzel was still not old enough to drink, but that didn't matter. After that first night, she wouldn't go near the stuff. Just smelling it made her insides churn. Flynn tried to explain to her that that was the only sensible, reasonable reaction to the stale, cheap slop they had on tap here and offered to take her out on a tour of reputable pubs after her 21st birthday and find something she did like. She remained unconvinced.

A night at The Snuggly Duckling usually ended with Flynn standing next to a cross-eyed goat. The goat was some sort of bar mascot or pet. It was always around and it liked to climb atop one of the many wooden barrels that doubled as decor in this shoddy establishment. The barrels were scattered about the place with as much forethought and planning as a row of weeds. Much to Flynn's annoyance the goat liked to sneak up on him when he least expected it. _Gah! Would you stop that!_ Invariably, Rapunzel would come over and scratch it behind its ear and talk to it in a sing-songy baby voice. _Aww, did that mean ogre yell at you? Why, you're nothing but a big sweetheart aren't you boy? Yes, yes you are._ Flynn was most definitely, absolutely not jealous of a cross-eyed goat.

Eventually, Flynn's torture would end and they would turn in for the night.

###

Rapunzel slept with the bedroom door open, a habit she formed on the first night she spent at his apartment when Flynn had left it halfway open for her.

In the early mornings, when she thought he was still asleep, he would sometimes hear her soft sobs.

As a general rule, he kept to himself. He didn't care about other people or get involved with their problems. Sure, he would occasionally intervene, but that was only when it affected him or when it affected his business. But that was just it. No one affected him the way Rapunzel did. Maybe it was because he liked her as a person or because they lived together, but something about the way she felt, whether it was happy or sad or playful had an effect on the way _he_ felt at a given moment. At this particular moment, he was feeling pretty melancholy.

He knew from experience that childhood traumas didn't disappear overnight; that things wouldn't be hunky-dory just because her mother was out of the picture. He didn't believe emotional scars ever healed completely. They just faded into the background over time, its flare-ups becoming less and less frequent, less pronounced. Still, the scars remained. He carried his own around with him. He wasn't going to cry about it; he hadn't done that since he was a kid. But the scars were still there; they were permanently tattooed in invisible ink on his skin and occasionally they still hurt. Hers were too fresh, too new, and it was too soon for the hard-earned closure that had taken him years and a lot of stupid, misguided attempts to achieve.

At moments like this, he wanted more than anything to comfort her, to dry her big, emerald green eyes, to hug her and tell her that things weren't always going to feel this bad, that her demons weren't something she needed to face alone. But he stayed put. He didn't dare move from the couch; he wasn't going to pretend he got up for a glass of water or to use the bathroom and just happened to hear her cry. For one thing, she'd probably deny it even if her pink nose and red, puffy eyes betrayed her. Flynn smiled in the darkness; she could be adorably stubborn sometimes. But more importantly, he knew from his own failed dealings with the headmasters and school guidance counselors of his youth that it had to come from her. She had to be the one to seek him out, to approach him, to open up to him. She hadn't confided in him and if and when she did, his would be there for her. He would be a shoulder to cry on, a listening ear, a silly distraction whatever she needed. Until then, all he could do was respect her privacy and act like he was none the wiser.

Still, his heart would sink a little when he would ask her over a late breakfast if she'd slept well and she'd lie and tell him she had.

He wasn't sure if she ever noticed, but he always made it a point to be extra nice to her on days like these - an extra-long visit to her friends the pub thugs, a large bowl of hazel nut soup for dinner. He even once read her a collection of verses from the liner notes of one of his albums because she had told him she liked the sound of his voice. Anything to coax that smile out of her; the one that raised the corners of his own mouth. If she ever found out he could sing he'd be in real trouble.

###

"If I ink one more butterfly on you, you're going to have a kaleidoscope."

"I _like_ butterflies," she insisted, licking her lower lip and looking at him the way a jewel thief would ogle a precious stone, hungry and covetous.

The girl he'd inked the night Rapunzel showed up was back. This didn't surprise him. He expected that from one of his groupies. But he hadn't expected her back so soon; the first tattoo he'd given her hadn't even healed yet and she was back for more. This girl was aggressive.

She reached out to touch his thigh, but he was too quick for her and the gloved hand that wasn't holding the tattoo machine caught her forearm mid thrust.

"You try that again and there might be an arrow or two running through your butterflies."

"Sorry. It's just that I get jumpy when I'm scared."

He wasn't fooled by her feigned apology or her flimsy excuse. Suddenly, he felt conscious of his surroundings and it started to really bother him that the door behind him was closed. He only worked with the door closed when his clients needed their privacy and his groupies _always_ asked for privacy. He normally didn't even think about it, but tonight he felt guarded and acutely aware and protective of his personal space, as if he were saving it for someone else.

When he was finishing up and she caught wind that her private time with him was coming to an end, she became much more direct.

"So, that girl out there, the one with the . . . _interesting_ haircut," from the way she emphasized the word, Flynn knew it wasn't a compliment, "is she your girlfriend?"

Flynn froze. The question caught him off guard. Lately, he had been wondering the same thing. He wasn't sure he was ready to categorize the way he felt about Rapunzel; he didn't think there were words to describe the way his heart tried to beat its way out of his ribcage when she came near him, how he was convinced her laughter was the most rewarding sound in the world, or how he liked to lean over her shoulder when she showed him something and breathe in the chocolate locks that now smelled of strawberry shampoo instead of his generic blue goop, at least not words he had ever spoken to someone who wasn't his parents.

"She's someone I'm interested in." He wasn't trying to undersell his feelings. It's just that he wasn't about to share something so private with the stranger in his chair.

Even so, the girl looked personally affronted. When he finished taping the tattoo gauze to her skin, she stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

###

He hadn't expected to find her sitting cross-legged on his bed with a sketchpad in her lap when he got out of the shower. It was their day off, but she had been quietly working on his drafting table in the living room all morning. Lately, she had thrown herself into creating designs for the parlor and was determined to fill up the black binder he'd given her to display her artwork.

He felt uneasy about being around her with nothing but a towel wrapped loosely around his waist. Ever since the apa incident, that's how he referred to it in his head, he was wary of anything that might even hint at a sexual attraction.

He was in the process of getting his clothes from the dresser so he could put them on in the bathroom when he heard her speak.

"No. Don't get dressed yet."

_Oh?_ Flynn raised an eyebrow, his back still turned to her.

"I want to see your tattoos."

_Ah, there it was._ He knew there had to be an innocent explanation. She had been spending all this time drawing tattoos on paper and she wanted to study the way tattoos looked on skin.

"Okay. Let me just grab a pair of jeans."

"No. Stay like that."

". . . All right," Flynn said cautiously as he sat stick straight on the edge of the bed and waited for her to crawl over to him.

Something about being around her in nothing but a towel made the air in the room feel charged; like the atmosphere in the minutes preceding an electrical storm. It was equal parts exciting and dangerous. He felt the current that ran through both their bodies the minute her small hands brushed up against his bare back. He may have even leaned into her touch.

He normally didn't like people asking him about his tattoos; if they were admiring the technique or interested in the process, that was one thing. But the minute they started asking what each one meant, he would shut them down. _Sorry, I don't do backstory_.

He could feel her finger trace down the center mast of the galleon that dominated the space between his shoulders. It made his spine tingle. She then traced the skull and bones insignia in each one of its frayed sails. Her strokes were careful and deliberate and the pressure she applied varied depending on the thickness of the lines. It was like she was mimicking the way the tattoo had been inked on his skin. She followed the swirls of the tentacles that wrapped themselves firmly around the doomed vessel dragging it down into unseen depths.

Most people assumed it was a nautical tattoo; that it had to do with pirates and treasure maps, and swashbuckling rogues. He never corrected them, but when she asked him about it, he told her the truth.

His parents had drowned in a ferry accident on their way back to the island. He had been one of the few survivors. The ill-fated galleon with its skulls and crossbones symbolized their death. He told her about the horrible guilt he'd felt that he hadn't been able to save them and about the nights he wished they had taken him down with them.

There was a sideways figure eight just above his well-defined iliac furrow. Most people mistook it for an infinity sign. He told her that was how old he was when his life changed, when he became a ward of the state. He told her how he'd had a tough time at the orphanage, how no one wanted to adopt an eight-year-old kid, the few couples who came by always wanted to adopt babies and how hurt and rejected he'd felt. For a long time, he thought something was wrong with him and in his darkest moments he used to think that maybe his parents had purposely drowned to get away from him.

As he spoke, he could feel her gentle caresses on his back and her wet tears as she leaned forward to kiss the center of his spine.

The tattoo sleeves on both his arms represented the wilderness years, when he was lost and troubled and consumed by his search to make the pain go away. They ran down his upper limbs erratically, seemingly untamed and following no discernible pattern to anyone but himself.

He told her he'd never regretted getting any of his tattoos, but he was glad he had gotten the ones that symbolized the loss of his family and of his childhood on his back. It was hard enough thinking about it without the constant visual reminder.

When she asked about the small lowercase "e" in old English script over his left pectoral muscle, he knew he was ready to tell her.

"It's Eugene. My real name is Eugene Fitzherbert."

"_Eu_-gene." She said it very carefully, like she was enunciating a new word in a foreign language, like she'd never said it before because she never had.

"Yeah, something like that," he chuckled, grateful for the moment of levity she had unintentionally brought.

He felt vulnerable and laid bare to her and he knew it had nothing to do with his state of undress.

He couldn't help but think that the way she stressed the first syllable made it sound kind of nice. He didn't mind the name at all coming from her.

As they sat there on the bed talking, she opened up to him about her mother. He knew the basics, but she had never before told him about the details, about how she had felt when Mother called her childish or clumsy or chubby. How Mother would get angry with her and cut her off whenever she tried to ask about the world outside. She told him about how she would rub her fingers raw scrubbing the floors of the tower, but it was never good enough for Mother, about the guilt trips and the lies.

While she talked, she laced her thin fingers in the spaces between his larger ones. It was a simple gesture, but holding hands with a girl had never felt so intimate.

###

With five people already working in the parlor, space was limited, so Eugene removed the bifold doors off the broom closet across from the room where he inked and gave Rapunzel her own makeshift office to work out off.

At one point the layout on both floors of the building had been identical until he bought the place and gutted the first floor. The second floor remained in its original condition, but he didn't need a kitchen or a shower or a bedroom in the parlor, so he took those out and reconfigured the floor plan.

The front waiting area of the parlor was dominated by the leather couch and a large, glass receptionist's desk. What was the start of the hallway was preceded by a frosted door which he always kept open. The hallway led to the room he worked out of, a small kitchenette, a storage closet and an open area in the back where the tattooist and the two apprentices inked. The space he carved out for her corresponded to his walk-in closet upstairs. It was spacious for a closet, but not so much for an office. It was just big enough to accommodate a narrow desk, a chair, and a few art supplies.

Her desk ran the length of the back wall of the closet and she painted a mural inside it which wrapped around the walls and even extended down onto the furniture.

It was colorful and bright and cheerful and it reminded him of her.

* * *

**AN1:** You guys are awesome! I've been reading your reviews all week with a silly grin on my face. I feel like this little story is picking up steam. =D Also, welcome new readers, followers, and favers. Please keep coming back for more updates.

**AN2: **For those of you on tumblr, I have two Tangled related blogs: **jmetropolis tumblr ****com** and **tangledfics tumblr com**. Please check them out. The tangledfics blog is devoted exclusively to tangled fan fiction recommendations. We also accept follower fic submissions and suggestions. The JMet blog is mostly carefully chosen reblogs of fan art and screencaps and my occasional ficlet. I was actually thinking of doing drabbles for Inked from the scraps that don't make it into this story. It would be after I finish writing it, of course, and only if that's something people would be interested in reading. Just something to think about.


	6. Chapter 6

**Warning: For those of you who asked for chapter warnings, here it is. This chapter is rated M.**

* * *

**Chapter 6**

She was wearing her lavender sundress, its thin straps kept falling off her shoulders as she ran circles around his tall figure and strained to reach the sketchbook he playfully held over her head. He was half tempted to jokingly bite her whenever her outstretched fingers and palms grazed over his mouth.

She had been secretive about this all day, her body curving around the book protectively as she sketched on the couch. He knew she wasn't sketching a tattoo flash because she was using charcoal, she had already filled up her book, and she drew those openly, often showing him the designs when she had finished them.

This was different. Every time he got near her, she would close the front flap of her sketchbook.

Curiosity got the better of him. He put down the screwdriver he was using to replace the loose hinges on the kitchen cabinets, having already fixed the broken towel rack in the guest half-bath, and snuck up behind her. He used his quick fingers to snatch the sketchbook from her unsuspecting ones. It was too easy. He really should've been ashamed of himself, except he was too busy dangling the object in front of her and keeping it just out of reach.

He wasn't actually going to open it without her permission, but she didn't know that and it was fun teasing her. He liked the way she pawed at him and tried to climb up his torso like a tree in her failed attempts to recapture it. He also liked the frustrated flush that had spread across her cheeks, the light sheen of sweat that gave her skin a dewy glow and he especially liked the way she said his name all breathless and whiny. It reminded him of other conjured up scenarios even if at the moment his name was preceded by the words "stop it" and "give it back to me."

He could've done this all day, except he underestimated his opponent. She had realized he was too strong and too tall for her to recover her precious sketchbook by force. She needed the element of surprise; she needed to bring him down to her level. So she knocked him off his feet, _literally_.

She was sneaky about it. He didn't suspect a thing. She cleverly switched places with him so that he now had his back to the coffee table. Then, when he was least expecting it, she toppled him over it. His legs gave out from under him and he spilled onto the floor taking the table down with him in a loud crash that sent his canavs sneakers flying in the opposite direction. The sketchbook tumbled out of his hands and they both scrambled to reach it first. Aided by his longer arm span, he beat her to it, but lying on his back meant he no longer had a height advantage over her. She was determined to keep it that way as she threw her leg over him and sat on top of his midsection while she grappled with his hands for possession of the sketchbook.

What started out as a tug of war over the sketchbook grew into a predicament in Eugene's pants. He couldn't help it. He could feel her hot puffs of breath over his nose and lips as she wrestled him for the sketchbook, incidentally squeezing her knees and thighs against his sides in the struggle. It didn't help that she was also groaning in exertion.

He could've easily lifted her off of him, but there was no way he could take cover without her noticing the bulge in his pants. This wouldn't have been the first time she'd seen it, that line had been crossed a couple of weeks ago and he didn't need any reminders of what a spectacular catastrophe that night had been. But at least back then, she hadn't known what this meant; she hadn't known what any of it meant. Now, now she'd know that he had apparently reverted into a teenage boy who couldn't control his urges during an innocent game of capture the sketchbook. He realized he was trapped beneath her scant weight. He knew that any minute now she was going to lean back and when she did she'd definitely feel it. She was going to freak out and rightfully beat him senseless with that sketchbook of doom. He deserved it.

There was only one way to make his problem to away. Still griping the sketchbook, he squeezed his eyes shut and concocted the most vile, disturbing image he could think of in such short notice. _Hookhand in a bikini,_ _Hookhand in a bikini_, he kept repeating it in his head over and over again. But it was too late. She shifted back and his eyes snapped open in horror. He held his breath as he looked up at her, his drubbing heart coming to an abrupt and painful halt against his chest. _Oh, no_.

They stared at each other for what felt to him like an eternity; Eugene was certain his face mirrored the deer in the headlights look she was giving him. Their hands and their bodies had frozen in place mid-struggle until she leaned forward, closing the small distance between their lips. He hadn't expected her to kiss him and so his eyes widened even further for a moment before he closed them and retuned the kiss. He felt her move above him and deliberately settle her weight over his hips.

His hands forgot all about the sketchbook, which landed unceremoniously on the floor with a dull thud, in favor of running his fingers through her soft hair, along her nape, over her rounded shoulders, and down the gentle slope of her spine until they finally came to grips with her backside. His hands having decided, all on their own, that this was their favorite resting spot.

He felt the friction between them as she moved against him, building momentum, creating a rhythm.

Their kisses grew more and more heated with each passing moment. Even so, he begrudgingly pulled back from her. He had to know, he had to make sure.

"Are you _absolutely sure_ you want to do this?"

She nodded hurriedly as her eager lips made their way back to his.

He flipped her onto her back carefully, placing a hand behind her head so that she wouldn't hit it on the floorboards, and settled beside her. He chuckled softly when she protested the loss of contact.

He smiled at her reassuringly as his hands explored the gentle plains and slopes of her sundress.

His touch was slow and attentive. He was taking his time with her. It had none of the feverish frenzy of the first time they'd tried to do this, the night of the apa incident.

His hand came to rest over one of the thin dress straps that were just begging him for their release and his eyes met hers for permission. When she nodded in assent, he pulled them down in turn so that her dress now rested over her abdomen.

His fingers traced over newly bared peaks, eliciting soft sighs and pleasured moans and leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. He could feel her sensitized skin jut and harden in response to his touch, his mouth soon following the freshly chartered path.

When his hands reached down to trace the seam of her lace underwear, he felt her body tense up. He didn't hesitate; he immediately broke their kiss to meet her eyes.

"We can stop here, if you'd like," he whispered as he struggled to catch his breath, to slow down his breathing. He had meant it when he told her that one night that he would _never_ do anything she didn't want to do.

"It's not that. I . . . um," she began wringing her hands and looked as if she were searching for the right words to say to him, ". . . I just don't want it to hurt, again."

"It doesn't have to hurt," he responded softly as he pushed a stray lock away from her face and tucked it behind her ear.

She gave him a trusting smile and moved his hands back down to their prior position.

He began tracing lines and circles and swirls over the lacy fabric, his touch gradually intensifying until the undergarment beneath his fingers had dampened, until she was begging him to take them off and he happily obliged.

He pushed her dress up past her navel, bunching the fabric over her ribs as he slowly made his way down, leaving searing kisses over exposed skin along the way and making the pleasant discovery that she was extremely ticklish. It was something he'd overlooked in his rush that first night.

Now that there was no longer a barrier between them, his deft fingers and skilled tongue consumed her with a fervor that threatened to stroke his own fire and engulf him in flames. Despite his enthusiasm, he was careful to remain on the outside, to refrain from any intrusion even as she gasped and shuddered and called out his name.

He had never liked being all that vocal in bed. He would do the obligatory conversational niceties: _"Do you like that baby?"_ and _"Yeah, right there;"_ but he already knew how to please a woman and didn't need to remember whether she preferred to be dominated or if she had a thing for knees. It didn't matter. He usually never saw them again. He could also role-play with the best of them:_ "Okay, this time I get to be the overbearing boss and you be the secretary"_ and_ "Is there a problem here officer?"_ Wait, that one wasn't role-play, that one actually happened. In any case, for the most part, he found chatty girls distracting and talking during sex wasn't his thing.

With her, however, he craved direction. For the first time in his life, he wanted communication. He wanted her to tell him where, for how long, and how much pressure. He sincerely wanted to know what was behind every squirm and shudder. He wanted to memorize every mewl and gasp and whine and he wanted to elicit them from her over and over again until she cried out for him to stop. He wanted to revisit this as often and for as long she'd let him; not because it was another feather in his cap, but because he wanted her to feel amazing, he wanted her to sing in rapture.

Being new to this, he wasn't sure if she had any fantasies; but if she did, he wanted to hear all about them.

He gently rolled her onto his chest, his chin resting over the crown of her head as he felt her come down from the heady heights of her first, second, and third climax.

"Rapunzel?"

"Hmmm?" She was too exhausted for words.

"What's in the sketchbook?"

She reached across him to grab the object that lay forgotten on the floor beside them and handed it to him lazily, no longer caring to guard its secret.

He flipped the thick cover over the wire rings, still curious to see what had her so worked up that she had wrestled him to the ground.

_Oh_. It was a drawing . . . of _him_. It was a pretty accurate depiction; he was surprised she had remembered that much detail from the one time she'd seen him naked. He had not realized he'd made that big of an impression on her.

"Rapunzel, this is . . .," he cleared his throat, "this is quite good, actually; but I think you missed a few tatts."

"You could _show_ me," she mumbled softly against his chest with just a hint of seduction in her voice.

He picked her up off the floor and she wrapped her legs around him as he carried her into the bedroom so he could give her a private portrait sitting.

###

There was always a crowd on nights when the parlor was open. Except now people came to admire her artwork in addition to getting tattoos. She had begun to paint over the many blank canvases Eugene had strewn about in the apartment. While he kept the now finished charcoal sketch she'd made of him in the bedroom he now shared with her, he convinced her to display her other paintings and sketches in the waiting area of the parlor.

She soon garnered a loyal following: Officer Max who wasn't an art connoisseur but had a soft spot for Rapunzel, Eugene's stylish clothier and her yoga instructor husband, even Gunther, the most refined of the pub thugs, bought a few pieces for his burgeoning interior design business.

Almost daily she had to replace the painting that hung over the black leather sofa because invariably someone would purchase it.

Not everyone was enthused about the parlor's new resident artist. The groupies who came to see him would size her up and cast envious side glances at her when they thought no one was looking.

###

Eugene gripped the sheets on either side of him for fear that if he fisted his hands into her soft strands he'd lose his composure, his knuckles were starting to turn white from the pressure. He had already made the mistake of looking down at her and when those emerald greens met his gaze through long, thick lashes, he had to squeeze his eyes shut just to keep it together. The image of her warm, wet tongue slowly encircling the top bead of his barbell was going to haunt him for life.

By now she knew the mechanics of how things worked. He'd told her, or rather demonstrated it for her. Still, when the moment came and his body tensed up, he couldn't form the words to warn her; she'd robbed him of coherent speech, so he did the next best thing: he pulled her off of him. He heard faint protests, but by then he was too far gone, he was spent. Seconds later, she came back to him, resuming position and once again engulfing him in the moist, hot cavern of her mouth until all traces of his completion were gone.

_Fuck_, this girl was going to be the death of him.

###

They had been playing a video game while basking in the morning sun that pooled through the venetian blinds covering the large rectangular living room windows when she got up to use the bathroom. Eugene continued to play without her until several levels later when his character was tragically killed by a fireball spitting Venus fly trap while trying to evade a hopping winged turtle. When it was her turn, he glanced around and noticed she had been gone for a long time, so he got up to go check on her.

"Rapunzel? Is everything okay in there?" He asked as he knocked on the door.

When she cracked open the door slowly and told him what was wrong, Eugene felt his heart race a mile a minute.

"_Shit!_ Okay. Don't panic. I got this under control. Calm down. Just . . . _ugh_ . . . just give me a minute to think." He was looking at her but was evidently talking to himself because he was the only one freaking out. Other than the vibrant hue of carmine that had bloomed over her cheeks, she seemed fine.

He skidded to the hall closet where he kept extra supplies for the parlor and practically ripped the bifold door off its track in his haste. He pushed aside tubes and bottles of ointment, dropped rolls of surgical tape on the floor and knocked over a carton of Alconox until he found was he was looking for and ran back to her.

"Here," he pushed a 100-count box of individually wrapped tattoo gauzes into her hands. "These'll have to do until I get back."

He was halfway down the stairs when he realized in his rush he had forgotten his wallet and ran back up.

At the drugstore he discovered there was more than one kind. He had no idea which one she used or how many she needed, so he bought all of them.

When he got home, he found her balled up on the couch drinking chamomile tea. Her eyebrows shot up in astonishment when she saw him carrying six plastic grocery bags.

As she was helping him unpack, she muttered an apology. It turned out she hadn't been expecting it for another week. Thanks to his overreaction, she now had enough to last her through the zombie apocalypse.

He self-consciously rubbed the back of his head and smiled apologetically, when she pulled out the plug-in heating pad and the pink, girly bottle of acetaminophen tablets and stared up at him quizzically.

"What? _I_ don't know about stuff like this. I've never had a girl -," he stilted for a moment before continuing, "I've never had a girlfriend before. I asked the pharmacist. I figured she's a lady, she'd know what else I needed to get you."

Afterward, they curled up together on the couch with the flannel throw and the heating pad and watched his well-worn copy of a black and white vampire flick over a bowl of popcorn. If he'd been unsure if they were dating or just friends with benefits before, he now had his answer. He was _definitely_ in a relationship.

He smiled contently as he wrapped his arms around her and nuzzled his chin over the top of her head.

* * *

**AN1: **Thanks again you guys for the continued reviews, follows and favs. It's pretty awesome to have people excited about a story I'm pretty excited about myself. If you're new to the story, Eugene's statements about the first time they tried this refers to Chapter 3 of the story. There has been no off-screen canoodling between these two, promise.

On a related note, I think the main reason why I shy away from writing M-rated love scenes is that some anatomical terms or slang words seem either too technical or too creepy and OOC to me. Don't get me wrong, I know other people use them and I still read their fics, it's just for me personally, there's an ick factor. Anyway as I discovered while writing this chapter, an unexpected benefit of Eugene's piercing is that I can say "apa" and "barbell" until I'm blue in the face and it doesn't sound dirty because those words don't have that kind of connotation attached to them. It makes writing smut a lot easier for me. It's the gift that keeps on giving. =D

**AN2:** I think this is a good spot to thank my beta again, **Wolfram-and-Hart-Sauron**. I really, truly appreciate the time you've put into this story.

**AN3:** I posted a picture of a punky Rapunzel and Pascal on my **JMet** and **Tangledfics blogs**. It's not the one I was referring to in my ANs but it's really cute.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

He woke up to the crescendoing beeps of the black wristwatch he wore around his left hand, his nose pressed against a bare shoulder blade. He quickly turned off the alarm, not wanting to disturb the girl who slept beside him. She shifted in his arms, mumbling something about ruffians and frying pans and he held perfectly still, not daring to breathe until she settled back into her slumber.

He normally didn't set an alarm; he didn't need to, relying instead on his own personal sun to cheerfully wake him up. But today, he was determined to wake up before she did; today everything had to be perfect.

He'd never been a morning person, but she definitely was and there was something about her that made him want to be one too. He didn't want to waste his time sleeping when he could have more waking hours with her.

They were both laying on their sides in a loosened version of the spooning position they had fallen asleep in last night. An easy smile spread across his lips when he thought of the girl in front of him and he lightly pressed those lips to her shoulder planting a small, stolen kiss. He couldn't help himself, her skin was so soft and it was rare to have her like this, still asleep in his arms.

He gave himself a few more moments with her before carefully and slowly disentangling his arms from around her waist so as not to wake her.

He found his jeans and his boxers where he'd left them, on the floor next to the bed. As he got into them he bit his bottom lip to suppress a painful yelp as his bare foot found the metal hooks of her bra. He had no one to blame but himself; after all, he'd been the one who had left it there, on the floor next his own discarded garments. He really should learn to put clothes in the hamper, but he'd had other things on his mind at the time.

He didn't bother finding a shirt as he made his way towards the bathroom. After brushing his teeth, he headed to the kitchen and returned moments later with a pink box in his hand and a devilish smirk. All of this scheming and sneaking around behind her back was really fun.

He kneeled beside her, placing the box on the bed next to her and brushing her hair aside to reveal her ear.

"Happy birthday." he whispered.

His smirk turned into a genuine smile when he saw those eyelids pop open, revealing big, vibrant green irises that rivaled the leaves and the grass in mid-spring.

She seemed thoroughly confused by his comment as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes, her short hair sticking out in odd angles. It was a tough look to pull off, but somehow she managed to look equal parts adorable and delectable.

She sat up on the bed slowly. As she did so, the duvet that had clothed her while she slept slid down to her waist. She emitted a squeak when she realized this and quickly pulled the bedcover back up to her neck. Her cheeks turned bright pink when she met his gaze with a bashful smile and he bit down a quip about birthday suits not wanting to embarrass her further.

He quietly wondered how long it would be before she felt comfortable around him. He had noticed that there were times when she couldn't get out of her clothes fast enough and then, there were other times, like now when she was shy and demure with him.

"How did you know it was my -"

"Pff, the 'how' is not important, what is important is that we've got a busy day ahead of us." He accentuated every other word by playfully poking her sides, knowing full well she was ticklish there. He liked it when she squirmed under his touch.

"We do?" Her eyes widened.

"Well don't look so shocked birthday girl," he teasingly placed a hand over his heart as if her words had wounded him, "I may be new to this whole boyfriend business, but I wouldn't forget an important day like this."

"I even got you a present."

"You did?!" She squealed in excitement.

"Several, in fact. Here's your first one." He picked up the pink box and placed it on her lap.

She looked thrilled at first, but then her expression changed and she began fumbling with her hands. The sudden mood swing had Eugene scratching his head.

She began to mumble and he had to listen carefully to make out the words she was saying.

"Did you have to go to a lot of trouble for it? I mean, did you have to walk all night and fight off bears? Did you -"

"What? _No_. What are you talking about?"

"It's just that whenever Mother bought me anything, she'd always . . . well, never mind."

His heart sank when he realized where her worry was coming from.

"Not everyone is like her, Rapunzel. I would _never_ make you feel guilty or bad because I got you a present."

He pushed his way onto her side of the bed to sit down next to her and wrapped an arm around her. With his free hand, he picked up the pink box and handed it to her.

"Here, open it," he told her.

She flipped the lid back and was greeted by a dozen pink and yellow frosted cupcakes.

"You got me cupcakes!" She exclaimed.

She took a pink one out of the box and bit into it.

"Mmm." She practically moaned in pleasure causing Eugene to raise an eyebrow at her. He was half tempted to check for curled toes under the covers.

"Are these from -"

"Yup. Nothing but the very best for the birthday girl."

"Attila's cupcakes are divine," she said taking in another mouthful.

He grabbed a yellow one out of the box and examined it carefully.

As a general rule, the food at The Snuggly Duckling was not fit for human consumption. It was more road kill than restaurant fare. So naturally, Eugene was _very_ skeptical when she began raving about Attila's baking. Rapunzel was a natural born cheerleader and the self-appointed den mother to the Pub Thugs. She was always encouraging them to live out their dreams or nurturing their peculiar hobbies, and they did have some _very_ peculiar hobbies. He knew. Thanks to her, he had front row seats to every one of Fang's puppet shows. Notwithstanding her bravos and shouts of "encore" and standing ovations after every performance, they were nothing to write home about. He figured the cupcake thing was just Rapunzel being Rapunzel.

Even so, he knew he had to get her a box of these cupcakes for her birthday. As he bit into his, he had to agree with her. They were stupendous.

He licked the frosting off his own fingers before turning his attention to the frosting on her lips.

"_Eugene_," she protested.

"What? I can't kiss my girl on her birthday?"

"It's not that. Your breath is still minty fresh and I just woke up," she pointed out.

He kissed her again and began making swishing motions with his mouth imitating a sommelier tasting a fine wine.

"Relax. You have nothing to worry about. You taste like cupcake . . . and strawberry frosting . . . and a single maraschino cherry." He kissed her in between pauses.

"Mmm," she practically melted into his kisses.

". . . and morning breath," he chuckled.

"_Eugene_!" She tried shoving him off the bed but he was too sturdy.

He gave her his signature smirk, the one that took him years to perfect, the one that was like cat nip to other women, but somehow seemed to have no effect on her. Well that wasn't entirely true; it seemed to annoy her, which was partly the reason he liked doing it.

She whacked him hard in the face with her pillow as she jumped out of the bed to brush her teeth.

"Hey, you broke my smolder!" he called out after her.

###

He showered first. On his way out of the room, he grabbed a clean pair of boxers, a pair of jeans and one of his three Tattersall shirts. The ones he'd bought with her the first time they went shopping for clothes together.

He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt just below the elbows so he could proudly display the artwork on his forearms; they were both learning experiences and war stories. He did this whenever he wore dress shirts. Otherwise the shirts would cover all of his tatts and he'd look like a clean cut, stand-up guy. He couldn't have that; he had a certain reputation to uphold.

While she was getting dressed, he nabbed a shiny red apple from the fruit bowl in the kitchen and placed it inside a shoebox he'd hidden in the hall closet. He smirked at its contents, everything was going according to plan.

He closed the closet door when he heard her footsteps, quickly grabbing an art book from the shelf and sitting down. He flipped through the pages nonchalantly with an arm draped casually over the back of the couch and his feet propped up on the coffee table in a manner that said, "_Nothing to see here, move along folks_." He even began to whistle until he looked up and she took his breath away.

She wore her lavender sundress, the one that set-off her eyes and reminded him of the day of the sketchbook. He was _very_ fond of that dress.

She had accessorized it with strappy sandals, a thin, pink headband that kept her chestnut hair out of her face and a white, pearl button cardigan. She looked absolutely beautiful.

He took her small hand in his as they made their way out of the apartment.

###

Rapunzel was born on Corona's day of independence. Eugene remembered this from her ID that first night at The Snuggly Duckling.

Independence Day in the small island nation was unusual in that it didn't commemorate one of those hard earned, bloody successions from a ruling tyrant. At one point in its history, Corona had been ruled by a benevolent king and queen, but when their infant daughter and sole heir to the throne was stolen and never returned, it peacefully slipped into a constitutional democracy.

This was Rapunzel's 21st birthday. It was also her first birthday outside of the tower and Eugene was determined to make it really memorable for her. He had the whole day planned out.

They had an early dinner at Tony's, an aptly named Italian restaurant near the top of the hill which boasted a spectacular view of the bay. Like the parlor, most businesses in Corona were closed on Independence Day. The few places that were open charged a premium for the privilege and Tony's was no exception. He had to beg, badger, and barter with the owner for weeks just to get a reservation, but the look on her face when she tried ossobuco for the first time was well worth it.

In the late afternoon, they made their way down to the village square where she danced with the townspeople and entertained the local children with her beautiful chalk drawings. A group of little red headed girls even pinned fresh flowers onto her headband and into her short locks.

Just before sunset, he took her down to the docks. All the larger vessels had been chartered months ahead of time for just this occasion, but Eugene knew a longshoreman whom he had inked. He called in a favor and the guy agreed to lend him his small boat.

He rowed her out into the crowded bay. As they waited for the festivities to begin, he collected the flowers that had fallen from her hair onto the floor of the boat and held them out for her. She plucked them from his open palm and began delicately placing each one onto the inky water, watching them drift away slowly.

When they heard the first blast, they both looked up simultaneously. All at once the night sky was illuminated in bright and cheerful hues. It was like someone had painted it with bursts of diamonds and rubies and sapphires.

They marveled at the fireworks above them and then his gaze dropped and he noticed her, shining in the starlight.

He took one of her hands in his and placed the other under her ear as he leaned forward and kissed her. It was warm and real and bright and he knew that everything was different, now that she was here with him.

###

When they got home, he handed her the shoebox. He had poked holes in it and watched expectantly as she took the lid off to open her present. When she looked inside, her face fell. It was not the reaction he'd been expecting.

He looked down and was surprised to see that the box was empty except for part of the apple he'd placed in there this morning. He stupidly put his hand inside it as if her present was somehow still hiding in there.

"You got me an apple core?"

"_No_." He face fell. It was official; his perfect day streak had come to a screeching halt.

"Is it a pretend present? Are we supposed to put wishes in there or something?" She asked earnestly.

"_No_." Eugene almost scoffed as he began to cast his glance around the room, pawing the cushions and looking under the art book he'd left on the coffee table. He'd never heard of a pretend present, but he was sure there was no such thing. And even if there was, he sure as hell wouldn't have gotten her one. If this was something her mother had told her, she was an even shittier parent than he already thought she was.

"Look, whatever you do, watch your step, he's gotta be in here somewhere." She immediately picked her feet off the ground, she didn't want to squish it, whatever it was.

By now he was slowly pacing about in the kitchen. He could've sworn he heard a snigger coming from an empty flowerpot, one she had painted when he had taken her to one of those paint-your-own-ceramics stores on a date, but that was preposterous. He found himself wishing he'd gotten her a hamster or goldfish, something that didn't blend into its surroundings so easily, but when they had passed that pet shop that one time, she didn't look at the hamsters or goldfishes, she was fascinated by the - -

"Eugene . . . what are we looking for exactly?" She asked as she turned around to lean on the back of the couch and face him, faithfully remaining on the cushions for fear she might step on whatever her birthday present was.

"It's a chamele -" He didn't quite get the words out before he heard her high-pitched squeal.

"A _chameleon_! You got me a _chameleon_!" She looked positively deranged with glee. It stopped him in his tracks and made him cast her a side smirk.

He figured she'd be happy about it, but somehow her reactions where always better in the flesh than whatever his imagination could conjure up.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

He eventually gave up his search and told her he'd go down to the pet shop and get her another one if it didn't turn up in the morning, a suggestion she strongly protested. She didn't want another one, she wanted this one even if she hadn't actually met him yet.

He couldn't do anything about the missing chameleon, he was hoping it would be easier to spot in the daylight, but he could definitely give her the third present in the privacy of their bedroom.

She insisted he carry her there, she said it was for fear of stepping on the very best present anyone had ever given her - that was exactly how she worded it -, but he had a sneaking suspicion she just wanted to be carried. He didn't mind. It gave him the opportunity to breathe her in as she left erratic little kisses on his neck along the way.

###

The next morning he woke both of them up with a blood curdling scream. When she later teased him about it over pancakes, he would insist it was a manly scream.

He bolted right up, when he felt a slimy, unfamiliar tongue in his ear.

"What? What is it? Are you alright?" She asked sleepily, confusion settled over her brow as she slowly sat up.

"I think I found your birthday present," he told her in a humorless tone as he reached down between them and plucked a very small, very green veiled chameleon.

She squeaked with excitement as she reached out to hold him in her palms.

"Are you okay, little guy? Did that big, bad man scare you? . . . Yes, I _know_."

Eugene rolled his eyes as she cooed at the little green monster.

The thing started chirping at her and it irked him that it seemed like the two of them were talking about him behind his back, or rather in front of his face.

###

"Have you thought about what you're going to name him," he asked later as he leaned over her to simultaneously kiss her temple and grab the squeeze bottle of syrup.

"Pascal," she responded almost immediately.

"Really?" He was surprised by her answer. He thought she'd name him something artsy like Cezanne or Matisse. He looked at the little goober who was happily chomping away on an orange wedge.

"He was a mathematician who had all these really cool theories. I've been learning about them in my coursework."

Rapunzel had started studying for her GED. She had stayed home her whole life so there were no school records to speak off. In fact, she had no records whatsoever.

She wanted to enroll in the art school program in the fall at Corona University and to do that she needed a high school diploma or GED and she needed proof of identification. Her dreams would've come to a complete and painful stop if Officer Max hadn't done both of them a solid and used his police badge to walk into the Bureau of Vital Statistics and "find" her birth certificate.

"Oh, you don't need to thank me. It was nothing," he had said as the three of them celebrated afterwards at The Snuggly Duckling. "The darn thing was just sitting there waiting for me in the printer," he had joked.

Eugene knew that Max had really put his neck on the line and could've lost his job and maybe even been indicted if he'd been caught. Max had insisted he did it for Rapunzel, but Eugene considered it a personal favor to him as well. There was nothing he could do about that witch stealing her past, but he really began to see red when it looked as if she was going to steal her future too.

That night, he saw Max in a whole new light and tried to apologize for all the grief he'd caused him in his youth. As they were walking out of the pub, Eugene pulled the police captain aside. "Thank you," he told him. The older man shrugged him off as if to say it wasn't necessary, but Eugene kept going.

"I mean . . . all this time, we've been misunderstanding one another, and you know it's -," he stopped himself when he noticed Max was giving him an annoyed look. "Yeah, you're right. We should go."

As soon as they got home that night, Rapunzel signed up for the test and started to pour over his old GED textbooks from when he took the exam. She was nervous about it coming up so soon, but he knew she would ace it. She was brilliant, and it wasn't just because he was so smitten by her. She was truly the most intelligent, most fascinating person he'd ever met. If he could pass it on the first try with only a casual perusal of the material, she could do it in her sleep.

* * *

**AN1:** For those of you who are Disney buffs, you might recognize Tony's as the restaurant from Lady and the Tramp. Thanks for the continued reviews, favs and follows. **Jade1994**, you asked about Max and Pascal, here they are.

**AN2: **And a special thank you to my beta, **Wolfram-and-Hart-Sauron**, for getting this chapter out in record time.

**AN3:** Sorry if you weren't able to read this last night. I got the dreaded "FF dot Net Message Type 1" error. Ugh.


	8. Chapter 8

**Warning: This chapter is rated M.**

* * *

**Chapter 8**

Pascal didn't care for Eugene at first, but warmed up to Rapunzel immediately. This didn't surprise Eugene, everyone loved her.

The girl and her pet chameleon were inseparable. She would even bring him to work with her where he had become quite popular with clientele and employees alike. While Eugene was working in the back room on a client, he would hear the now familiar "oohs" and "ahhs" coming from the front waiting area of the parlor and smirk. He knew it was in response to the little ham turning colors or patterns to match a tattoo on someone's shoulder or back.

He didn't mind Pascal at all when he was at work. He even thought a chameleon made a pretty cool pet for a tattoo parlor; he was much better than that smelly, crossed-eyed old goat next door. It was at home where their differences arose and were clearly evident.

At home, Pascal liked to perch on Rapunzel's shoulder and would become territorial whenever Eugene tried to get near her, which was all the time. Her overprotective pet would turn a violent shade of red and even hiss at him. For his part, Eugene never missed an opportunity to remind the little green chastity belt that he saw her first, which seemed to annoy him even more than when Eugene referred to him as the frog.

He thought the solution was simple and brought home a large terrarium for the possessive hellion to sleep in at night. He even filled it with special rocks and plants which the clerk at the pet shop had assured him would simulate his natural environment; Eugene was beginning to think Pascal's natural environment was perched on the shoulder of a certain pretty girl.

Eugene thought he'd figured it all out until he tried to put Pascal in his new sleeping quarters for the night and Rapunzel dissolved into tears at the mere suggestion. He hadn't seen that coming. He'd been a huge, insensitive jerk. The worst part about the whole ordeal was that he'd made her cry and couldn't even get near enough to comfort her. It made him feel shitty and helpless. He now realized that putting Pascal in the terrarium even for a few hours was too close to home for Rapunzel, too similar to her own confined upbringing, so he didn't press the matter further. For her sake, his ears would endure having a chameleon for an alarm clock and getting hissed at on a nightly basis until he could come up with something else. For her sake, he would endure anything.

The idea came to him a few days later over a bowl of cherries when he discovered that Pascal was either easily bribed or easily distracted. After that they got along swimmingly. He'd feed him grapes and cut up pieces of fruit on the kitchen counter or just deposit him in the fruit bowl for the night when he wanted some extra alone time with his girl. The frequency of these events might mean that he could end up with a very plump chameleon on his hands, but he'd deal with that later.

###

He rolled a pair of white, six-sided dice across the kitchen counter while she rocked back and forth on her barstool, gripping the sides of the counter for support.

"Damn it." He'd gotten a seven and was forced to land his shiny metal race car on one of her properties.

"Hmm, let's see," she crinkled her nose as she picked up one of the little square cards that she had carefully laid out side by side in front of her as she acquired them, "with the new hotel, you owe me," she tallied up her fingers, "2,000 crowns."

"What?! Come on, aren't you going to give me a discount?" He balked.

"Eugene." She rolled her eyes, unmoved by his antics and unwilling to start negotiations, so he switched gears.

"Are you really going to charge that much to an _orphan_?" He gave her his most innocent, boyish smile.

It was a low blow, but she held her own.

"_Eugene_."

He tried another tactic.

"What if I don't wanna stay at your crummy hotel? Huh? What if I decide to just sleep in my car? What then?" He said defiantly as he crossed his tattooed arms over his chest.

"Pay up, Eugene." she held her hand out to him for payment.

"I . . . I don't have that kind of money!" he sputtered, waving a handful of pink paper bills at her to emphasize his point.

"Well then, I guess you'll just have to mortgage some of your properties."

"Pff, no way." Despite his flat out refusal, he looked down at his own square cards and thought about it for a minute.

"Listen. Babe . . . Maybe we can figure something out. Maybe there's a way I can work off this debt. Maybe we could come to a _mutually beneficial agreement_." he leaned in closer to her as if he were letting her in on a secret, "I'm very handy, you know." He smiled wolfishly at her as he waggled his eyebrows.

". . . I don't know what you're referring to." she feigned, putting on her most prim and proper countenance.

He could tell she was getting flustered and decided to call her bluff.

"Really?" He raised an eyebrow. "Because that's not what you told me last night. Last night, you said, and I quote - -"

She flushed bright red and used both her hands to cover up his mouth.

"Eugene Fitzherbert! Don't you dare repeat _that_." She whispered the last word.

Undeterred, he proceeded to lick her palms. She wiped her hands down the front of her shirt and gave him a disgusted look while he smirked at her.

This was too easy; this was too much fun. He didn't know what had her so worked up, it was just the two of them and it's not like they were talking about this in a public place, but he sure as hell was enjoying it.

"Well, if you don't want me to say it, I could just give you a demonstration." his fingers twitched as he grinned rakishly.

"_Eugene_!" She shoved him as he chuckled at her. He wasn't fooled by the scandalized way she said his name, by now they had done this way too many times for her to be affronted by his innuendo.

"Aw, come on, babe. We both know you like it when I -"

"I will use this." she said menacingly as she grabbed the nearest object, a cast iron frying pan, off the dish rack and shoved it under his chin.

That got his attention; he put his palms up defensively.

She glared at him while she put down the frying pan and made a zipping motion over her lips. Her eyes darted down to her frog who was sitting in the middle of the game board looking completely disinterested in the impolite conversation that was going on above his head.

Eugene followed her gaze and saw the little goober quietly chopping away on what looked like a piece of lettuce.

"_Him_? You're blushing because of him? He doesn't know what we're talking about -" he took another look at Pascal, "Aw, hell. Give me that."

He pulled the wet, slimy green piece of play money from the unsuspecting reptile's mouth, causing him to emit a squeak.

"You little sneak!" he teased her. "This is why I don't have any money, you got your cohort here to eat all of it!"

"I did not! You don't even know if Pascal got that from your stash!" she yanked the green bill from his hand and gave it back to the very confused chameleon.

"The reason _you_ ran out of money," she jabbed her index finger into his chest, "is because you used it all up buying these properties. If you don't want to mortgage any of them, I'll make you a deal . . . I'll accept Park Place as payment."

"What, and give you a monopoly? _No way_!"

He flipped through his cards; he'd have to mortgage all of them to raise the 2,000 crowns.

"Fine!" he relented, handing over the title deed to his most prized property.

"When did you become such a money grubbing real estate tycoon, huh?" He playfully poked her sides, "How do you fit all that greed in that little body of yours?"

She squirmed under his touch and grinned smugly at him until it was her turn to roll the dice. She counted the spaces and looked up at him with pleading eyes.

"Oh! Looking for this?" he asked innocently as he fanned himself with his orange 'Get Out of Jail Free' card, "I'm sure we can figure out a fair trade."

###

Eugene was happy with the status quo in the bedroom and on the floor and in the shower and on the couch and that one time on the kitchen counter.

It didn't matter to him that despite all the creative means and ways they pleased each other, they still hadn't made their way across home plate. It didn't bother him that what they did do, most people would call foreplay; it was what he used to consider the pre-game warm-up back when he used the word "dating" as a euphemism for sex.

He had no complaints, the things she would let him do to her, the things she wanted to do to him, the things they did together were quite gratifying and he was cognizant of the fact that he was one _very_ lucky man.

He thought that she felt the same way about their interactions and that she too was satisfied with the way things were which was why he was taken by surprise one night when, in the heat of the moment after things had progressed from amped to sweaty and messy and feverishly urgent, she begged him to take their physical relationship to the next level.

Except she hadn't phrased it so politely. In fact, he had never heard her use that particular word before. Of course, he used it all the time, like earlier that evening when he had stubbed his toe on the coffee table or when he forgot to return a movie they had rented at the video store. He used the word often, as a noun, a verb, an adjective; it had become routine and blasé and completely devoid of its original meaning. But when she had used it, she'd meant it in its literal sense and it was startling. He wasn't shocked or offended, it's just he wasn't expecting it. It was arresting.

It halted his busy hands and stilled his tongue and made him shift from his almost kowtow position to sit back in seiza, causing the pale, slender legs that had rested over his shoulders to fall onto the bed.

"What?"

It was a stupid question. He'd heard what she'd said; the words still rang in his ears and ricocheted in his skull like one of those silver orbs inside a pinball machine. Her words were not something he'd ever forget; they were most definitely and permanently seared into his brain for future and frequent recall.

"Please don't make me repeat it," she hid her face in his chest.

". . . I thought you didn't want to -"

"I want to." She spoke into his sternum.

They had talked about this. There were lines and there were boundaries that she had delineated. He knew them well. He also knew that people tended to get carried away when things got heated and sometimes they said things they didn't mean. He needed to make sure this wasn't one of those times, he needed more information.

He pulled her shoulders back creating some space between them so he could search her face for any traces of remorse, or lingering doubt or reservations, determined to avoid a repeat of the first time they had fooled around, that second night she had spent in his apartment.

He wanted to make sure this wasn't some rash, impetuous decision fueled by heated kisses and searing touches. He noted that she had voiced her request in a sentence which was something that was nearly impossible for her when she was too far gone to stringing together a coherent thought and instead communicated in breathy, stilted phrases like, "Please, Eugene. . . yes . . . right there . . . oh goodness . . . don't stop . . .," or similar words along those lines. But that allayed only one of his concerns.

The other was more difficult to figure out. He needed to make sure she had asked him to do this because it was something she wanted to share with him and not out of some misguided sense of obligation or because this was the next logical step in their relationship. He wanted her, but only if she wanted this for the right reasons. He had no idea how to discern her motives without asking her and the question "Why?" in response to her impassioned declaration seemed inappropriate and rude.

When he took too long trying to figure why she had asked him, she grew frustrated and took matters into her own hands. He watched in stunned silence as her fingers took over the job he had hesitated to do. He came dangerously close to losing it then.

He leaned in to kiss her, his hands cupping the sides of her face before he reached down to replaced her hand with his own.

There was really not much else he needed to do. He didn't need to undress her or kiss her neck and slowly make his way down, they had already done that. She had already started to writhe under his touch when she'd made her intentions known and so there was very little left for him to do when his calloused fingers reached her dampened skin.

He gently lowered her back onto the bed and reached across her to retrieve a foil wrapper from the drawer in the nightstand.

As he unrolled the latex, he thought back to the last time he'd put on a condom. It had been in this room and it had been in her presence. The change in circumstances between then and now made it feel like a lifetime ago.

His heart tattooed in his chest. He didn't know where this nervousness was coming from. He certainly hadn't felt this way the first time he had tried this with her. But he didn't know her then and she didn't know him. They had been strangers and he was used to that, sex with strangers.

But she was no longer a stranger to him, not anymore. He knew that lavender was her favorite color, that she could play board games for hours on end and had a hyper-competitive streak, that she bit her bottom lip whenever she sketched; he knew that she oftentimes talked in her sleep and that while she was friendly and outgoing, she sometimes felt anxious when she met new people. And he was no longer a stranger to her either. She knew the meaning behind each one of his tattoos, that his first kiss had taken place at the park behind the orphanage, under the slide, that his mother's name had been Gertrude, and that while he put on a disinterested front, he wasn't as unaffected by life as his ink and bad boy veneer would suggest. She knew him better than anyone had in a very long time and it was both elating and terrifying.

"Ready?"

"Yes." she responded. The trust in her voice did not go unnoticed.

As he positioned himself, he kissed her. He wasn't sure who he was trying to distract; if he was trying to divert her attention from the pain or his own from the almost incapacitating fear of hurting her.

In the end, it wasn't the kiss, but the significance, the importance of that moment that got them both through their fears.

A push, a breach, a cry and he was engulfed in her warmth.

"Are you okay?"

She fought back tears as she nodded and he whispered back words of comfort with a tenderness his voice only ever reserved for her.

He could feel her tremble beneath him, or maybe he was the one trembling as he struggled to hold still for her, as he struggled to keep his head above water.

He held back, moving shallow and cautiously at an excruciatingly slow pace and only hastened his drive when she wrapped her legs around his lower half and with the backs of her heels pushed him in further.

He knew this wasn't going to be mind-blowing, earth-shattering, check the headboard for claw marks and use a broomstick to fetch your clothes from the ceiling fan sex. He would have other opportunities to impress her with his skill and stamina and dexterity. He would have other opportunities to expound on her the benefits of so many years of experience. This was not the time. That's not what she needed right now. She needed him to get her through this as quickly and with as little discomfort as possible.

And he did just that until he felt the telltale signs of her impending climax, until he heard her gasp his name and felt her walls flutter around him for the first time. And then he did something he'd never done before. He stopped, he forwent his own release. He knew the longer he stayed there the sorer she'd be in the morning and although he now had his own pain and discomfort to contend with as a result, her needs came first, they always would.

They talked about what had happened for a long time afterward as she rested her head on his shoulder and he held her in place. He mused to himself that in her post-coital bliss, she had a faint glow.

When she began tracing the tattoos on his chest and etching new ones with her fingers, he told her that it reminded him of finger-painting without the actual paint and that there ought to be a word for that. She pointed out that finger-painting without the word "paint" would just be fingering and they both laughed like a couple of adolescents sharing a dirty joke.

He felt comfortable and at ease with her and there was none of that habitual itch to leave he usually got after sex.

There, in his familiar arms she found sleep, like she had so many nights prior, but it eluded him.

He thought about what they had done tonight, about how they had made love for the first time. And it was exactly that, making love. There were no other words to describe what had occurred between them. Before her, the term had always creeped him out. It was probably because he'd only ever had sex and more specifically, he'd only ever fucked. This was something else entirely.

He had been so focused on her and so attentive to the way she was feeling - checking on her and asking her several times if she was feeling alright - that he was only now just beginning to wonder if _he_ was feeling alright.

He had been so worried about her first time, he didn't think about how it would affect him. In fact, he hadn't even considered the possibility that this might feel different for him as well. After all, he was the one with all the experience. He had done this before, countless times, countless women.

He hadn't expected the emotional tidal wave that went along with this. Up until tonight sex had been a purely recreational activity between two consenting adults, devoid of any attachment. When it was over, he'd put his clothes back on and leave. There were no lingering feelings or thoughts about the other person and he certainly did not stay up half the night going over every little detail and trying to wrap his mind around what had happened.

He came to the conclusion that this, what he'd shared with her, was an entirely new experience.

All this time he'd been swimming in a kiddie pool thinking it was the ocean. There was no comparison. One was vastly more powerful, its expanse immeasurable, its depths unknowable and profound. The other . . . now seemed quite limited and dull in comparison.

"_Eugene_? Is everything okay?"

He'd been so wrapped up in himself he didn't notice that she'd woken up.

The concern in her voice, chased away the muddled haze.

He recognized it now. It was there in the way his gaze was more focused and always lingered when he looked at her. It was there in the way his hand always sought hers when they crossed the street and continued to hold onto it even after they reached the other side, and it was especially there in private moments, like the one they had shared tonight, when he touched her with a veneration he had never shown anyone else.

As he looked at her, he realized he hadn't told her yet, not in actual words anyway. He'd only just admitted it to himself. Even so she deserved to know. She had a right to hear it from him.

"_I love you._" He told her this as his amber eyes held her emerald gaze.

She smiled up at him brightly with a grin that extended from ear to ear, like a mischievous cat who'd been hiding her own secret.

"I love you, too."

* * *

**AN1:** I meant to get this chapter done sooner, but I really struggled with writing this last section. After several re-writes, this was the end result. Sorry for not updating earlier.

**AN2:** Thanks you guys for the continued interest in this story! **fictionadict24**, I do have Rapunzel's backstory worked out, but I don't think I'm going to include it in Inked. I want to keep Inked's storyline clean and discovering Rapunzel's past requires the introduction of two new characters to the plot, you'll know who they are when I post the epilogue. What I plan to do instead is write a quick two or three-chapter shot on how they learn about Rapunzel's background. **jessamarie05**, you've been reading this story very carefully, I'm impressed; I think this chapter answers your question. ;^)


	9. Chapter 9

**I think this chapter is probably rated T, but since reasonable minds can differ, I guess I'll slap a warning on it anyway.**

* * *

_"And for that one moment, everything was perfect. And then that moment ended." - Flynn Rider, Tangled._

**Chapter 9**

The next morning he woke up next to her, like he had so many other mornings since he had moved from sleeping on the couch to sharing a bed with her.

He was in the same bed, next to the same girl, in the same room, but everything felt different to him, somehow. They had grown close these past few months. But last night, things had happened and words had been said and they now shared this delectable little secret that would've surprised absolutely no one considering they lived together, everyone knew they were dating and Rapunzel was not shy about public displays of affection, even if Pascal insisted on getting in the way and even if it earned him constant ribbing from the thugs next door.

He noticed she was already awake, but hadn't gotten up yet. She was lying quietly on her side, her back turned to him and when he propped his head up, resting its weight on his elbow, he could see over her shoulder.

The first thing he noticed was her hand absentmindedly tracing the quatrefoil pattern on the duvet cover, one she had picked out. She was lost in her thoughts and hadn't realized that he was awake now too. He also noticed she had the look of someone who had been thinking about something for a very long time and he could tell from the way the corners of her mouth tugged upwards into a smile that it was a very happy thought. She didn't look like someone who regretted what had happened between them and he felt a calming relief, one he hadn't known he needed, wash over him.

"Morning." he greeted her as he nuzzled his nose into the crook of her neck breathing in her flowery scent. He felt her gasp in surprise and then try to squirm away from him because she was ticklish there.

He didn't let her get very far as he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her back towards him. As she settled herself into a spooning position with him, her backside incidentally brushed against his barbell in a way that brought last night's activities to the forefront.

"How're you feeling?" He asked, his voice still rough with sleep, before resting the bottom of his scruffy chin over the top of her head.

"Better, now. I think the soreness is starting to go away." she said, unintentionally quashing the various amorous scenarios his quick mind had already conjured up.

"_Oh_." he remarked stupidly. He shifted so that they could face each other, the back of her head now resting on the inside part of his upper arm, and he gave her an apologetic little smile. He had meant to inquire about her state of mind, having momentarily forgotten that she might still be feeling the physical effects of their encounter.

Still, something monumental had happened between them and he wanted to acknowledge that. He wanted her to know that the things he told her last night still held true under the bright glare of the morning after.

"Rapunzel."

"Hmmm?"

"I meant what I said last night."

"I did too."

Her words made him smile and he kissed her forehead before sitting up on the bed and extending his hand to her.

"Come on, let's go grab your frog. I know a restaurant near the bookstore where they make a really mean omelet."

"Eugene?"

"Hmmm?"

"We don't have to leave the room just yet."

###

The shopkeeper's husband had been hounding Eugene for years to take one of his yoga classes. He was wasting his breath; it was _never_ going to happen. Over time, Eugene had become adept at declining every single one of his futile invitations.

But the tattoo artist had grown complacent and had underestimated his opponent. He hadn't counted on that sneaky, no good, underhanded yogi enlisting his girl to do the dirty work for him.

_Namaste_, indeed.

"No, no, no, no, no! _Absolutely not_! Sorry, Rapunzel. I don't do yoga."

###

Eugene concentrated all his energy on not falling flat on his face as the legs that were now hoisted well above his head started shaking and threatened to topple the delicate balance he had momentarily managed to achieve. _What if he broke his beloved, perfect nose?_ He hadn't considered that. The thought shot his anxiety levels to new heights.

Forty-five minutes into this new form of torture they casually referred to as a yoga class and the only pose he'd been able to master was called the corpse, which was exactly what he thought he might turn into if he kept this up. _Were the soles of his feet supposed to touch the top of his head?_ He was certain his back wasn't meant to bend in this direction and started to wonder if the paramedics would be able to put him back together again if he spilled onto the floor.

He glanced over to his left, to the lithe girl beside him; the sole reason he was literally and figuratively in this compromising position.

"You should know that this is the strangest thing I've ever done." he told her when she met his gaze and he smiled at her like an idiot. _When did he become such a lovesick schoolgirl?_

She was poised and graceful and very, very flexible. As expected, she was exhibiting a perfect scorpion pose. He should've known she'd take to this the way a duckling takes to water. She was a natural at _everything_. Of course, the years of self-taught ballet didn't hurt either.

He examined himself. He looked completely ridiculous in his old gray sweats and V-neck undershirt that thanks to the law of gravity was now pooled around his underarms, exposing his nipple rings, tattoos, and the entire expanse of his abdominal muscles to the poor, flustered woman behind him.

Rapunzel had bought him a pair of yoga pants for just this occasion, but he'd refused to wear them outside. If that was what she was into, he was willing to wear them for her around the apartment, but there was no way he was making a public appearance in them. He had to draw the line somewhere. They were tight in certain prominent areas and while it was pretty obvious he was the only male student in the class, he thought it would be impolite to flaunt this fact. _What was she thinking? Were yoga pants a new kind of male lingerie?_

###

He planted a hand on either side of her head, splaying his fingers on the wet tile behind her as he seized her lips and pinned her to the wall. His shower stall still wasn't big enough to accommodate two people comfortably, but it didn't bother him. In fact, he preferred it that way, it gave him an excuse to hoist her leg to his hip and hold it in place. He didn't even think he'd mind taking yoga, as long as he got to shower with her afterwards. Maybe he could get her to show him a few more of those yoga poses.

###

A few weeks later, there was an electrical storm when they left work for the night. It had rolled in off the ocean and was a rarity this late in the summer, but the meteorologists had predicted it was going to rain intermittently like this for the next few of days.

Rapunzel was like a kid in a candy store. To say she was excited was to understate it. She had never been in a storm outside of her tower and she'd gotten so worked up about this one that he couldn't say no to her. They stayed out in the rain for almost an hour. She went on jumping in puddles and splashing about in the alley between the parlor and pub as he stood watch, mesmerized by the very idea of her and wondering what he'd ever done to be so lucky. For once, Pascal climbed onto his shoulder, preferring to stay put under the dry overhang of the outdoor cement staircase where Eugene had taken cover.

They remained outside in the rain until the crash of thunder followed the flash of lightning too closely and it was no longer safe for them to stay there.

When they got home, he sliced a large cantaloupe in two and simply placed Pascal inside one of its halves leaving him behind in the kitchen happily munching away while he joined Rapunzel in the bedroom. They washed off the rainwater in a warm shower and dried each other and waited for the storm to pass under tousled sheets. Every so often the bright flash of lightning would illuminate the whole room like it was daylight for a few seconds and he couldn't help but think she was right. There was something magical about an electrical storm; something he somehow had failed to notice his whole life because she hadn't been there to point it out to him.

The next day, they both overslept. Eugene woke up first and reached for his wristwatch on the nightstand, it was half past noon. It wasn't like her to sleep through breakfast, or lunch for that matter.

He leaned over her and pressed his lips to her forehead. She was burning up.

"Rapunzel? Are you feeling all right?"

"Nmmm…" was her groggy response.

He wasn't sure what she had been trying to say with that string of consonants, but he knew she was sick.

He went to the kitchen to grab the thermometer he kept in one of the cabinets and noticed Pascal sprawled out in the sink under a spot of sunshine that came in through the large window behind the faucet. It reminded him of the way he used to wake up after a night of heavy drinking: on the floor, flat on his back with his limbs spread out like a starfish. The frog looked dull, like moss, and not at all his usual shade of leafy green. _Great_. He hoped the little glutton was just recovering from his fruit induced night of debauchery and not actually sick. He had no idea how to take care of a peaked chameleon. He scooped up the little hedonist and carried him back with him.

When he got to the room, she was shivering and had wrapped herself up in the bedcovers like a burrito. She needed something to wear, but he was concerned that the flannel fabric of her polka-dot pajamas was too thick and would only serve to insulate her fever, so he placed the thermometer in her mouth, plopped the frog down next to her, and reached for his well-worn concert tee without a second thought.

It was the thinnest shirt he owned and although he loved it, he loved her more; she could sweat out her fever in it and the light material would dry quickly. As he helped her change out of her pajamas, he grew concerned that she might also get overheated under the duvet, so he removed it from the bed leaving her with only the top sheet. He ignored her muffled protests, perhaps keeping the thermometer in her mouth a bit longer than necessary.

He fed both his patients eggs, it was the only thing he had learned how to cook in his former confirmed bachelor for life existence. After everyone had finished their impromptu breakfast in bed, he headed down to the drugstore to consult the pharmacist and to the pet shop for whatever it was you gave to sick chameleons.

He kept her in bed all day, assertively pushing fluids and over-the-counter medicine on her like some back alley salesman trying to get rid of ill-gotten goods. If they weren't feeling any better tomorrow morning, he'd have to take her to the doctor's and find a veterinarian for the frog in the phonebook. He was worried about both of them and angry at himself; he shouldn't have let her prance about in the rain last night. He couldn't believe he'd been so careless. He wasn't sure how Pascal got sick since he had mostly stayed under the staircase with him, but he was his responsibility too.

She slept most of the day with Pascal nuzzled next to her while Eugene held a cold compress to her forehead and ran his fingers through her hair. He knew people caught colds all the time and that it would probably resolve itself in a matter of days. This wasn't the eighteenth century, no one died from the common cold. Even so, he still couldn't help fretting over her, she was the single most important person in his life and he felt useless because he couldn't heal her. In her fever induced haze she began mumbling a song. A tune he'd never heard before. Something about a flower and a clock and sunshine or maybe a light. The details were murky and she was hard to understand.

By sunset her fever had broken and she was almost back to her usual perky self again. Eugene felt a huge surge of relief as he kissed her forehead and it no longer felt hot. He told her he was just checking her temperature. That was only half true.

His lips made their way down the slope of her freckled nose and he placed a single, experimental kiss on her lips. He looked down at the frog and noticed he wasn't putting up a fight at this display of affection, like he normally did. Either he'd finally accepted the fact that she was spoken for or he was too sick to play chaperone. In any case, Eugene wasn't one to waste a good opportunity when it landed on his lap.

"_Eugene_, if you keep kissing me, we're both going to be sick," she halfheartedly chastised him.

"Nonsense. Everyone knows the quickest way to get rid of a cold is pass it on to someone else." That wasn't even half true.

"I don't think it works that way."

"Trust me. I'm an expert at taking care of you - -"

As he was nuzzling her hair the phone rang. He never gave this number out, so he knew it was the parlor. He reluctantly left her side and went to go answer it.

There was only one phone in the apartment, a black, standard issue, rotary dial model which he kept next to the takeout menus on the kitchen counter. It was the only thing he ever used it for.

The voice on the line was not surprisingly his receptionist. He had called her when he came back from the drugstore and told her to cancel all of his appointments tonight; he was staying home to take care of Rapunzel. She had called everyone on the list except for the two collectors who Eugene had personally called. The collectors trusted Eugene and had worked with him for years. They didn't mind rescheduling their appointments and both had wished Rapunzel a speedy recovery.

Apparently one of the people his receptionist had called was now at the parlor demanding to talk to him.

"Who? I don't know who that is."

"Sorry. The name doesn't ring any bells," he said flatly.

"A groupie? You're calling me over a groupie?" He asked in disbelief.

"_Oh_, she wants to see me? Well that changes everything," he responded sarcastically.

"Of course she said that, she's a _groupie_!" He yelled into the receiver. He couldn't believe his receptionist was bothering him over something so trivial.

"I don't care how insistent she is, I'm not coming down there."

As he balanced the handset between the crook of his neck and his left ear, he reached over to open the door of his side-by-side refrigerator when he caught sight of the thin strip of white paper Rapunzel had taped there and smiled.

He thought that fortune cookies tasted more like cardboard than cookies, so he never ate the ones that came with his takeout orders, but Rapunzel loved cracking them open and reading their fortunes aloud. The one she had taped to the refrigerator door read, _"You're where you're meant to be."_

Eugene didn't believe in gobbledygook like fortunetelling, but he found himself wishing this one was true.

"Look. You know I haven't taken a day off since I opened the place," he told his employee as he grabbed a couple of parsnips from one of the clear, crisper drawers at the bottom of the fridge, "I'm not inking anyone tonight."

He grabbed a few more items from the fridge before closing the door with his foot.

"Just tell her I'm taking care of my _girlfriend_. Maybe she'll get the hint. If not, she can come back the day after tomorrow when we're open again." he groused into the receiver as he grabbed a saucepan from the dish rack.

When he hung up the phone, he turned his attention to more important matters, like how he would go about making hazelnut soup.

###

Eugene was in the back room inking another unicorn on Vlad's broad back. The storm that had rolled in a few days prior was still battering the small island with its intermittent rain and squalls.

It was an unusually slow night for the parlor, the inclement weather having kept most of his clients home except for a few determined souls and Vlad who had only a short trek across the narrow alley to get from the pub to the parlor.

He had wanted Rapunzel to stay home tonight, she and Pascal having just recovered from their colds. But she had insisted that if he was going to work, she would go with him. He hadn't inked anyone in two days and his left hand was itching for his tattoo machine, so he made her wear the raincoat and galoshes he had bought her after she got sick and held an umbrella over her head during their one minute commute downstairs to the parlor. It may have been overkill, but he wasn't taking any more chances with her.

Eugene had sent his apprentices and the tattooist home hours ago. There was no point in having them hang around the parlor when he could easily manage the workload by himself tonight. His receptionist was supposed to go home too, but she was waiting for her lousy on-again off-again boyfriend to come pick her up, the only thing less reliable than that no good lout was his beat up old clunker.

He had his door open and he could hear her yelling at someone. He could hear her over the wind gusts and thunder outside, he could hear her even over his loud music and over the buzz of his machine and it was grating on his last nerve.

He was going to have it out with her as soon as Vlad left and they finally closed the parlor for the night. If her idiot boyfriend still couldn't jump start his jalopy, she could wait for him upstairs in his apartment or crash on his couch. Either way, he was going home after this.

He didn't care what tonight's drama was all about, she really needed to learn to keep her lover's spats at home or at the bar or in the car, anywhere but his parlor. This was a professional setting, a place of business - -

"Flynn! Get over here!" The urgency in her voice caught him off guard.

He rushed to the front of the parlor as fast as he could; Vlad followed close behind him.

He felt his heart pounding in his throat when he saw the scene unfold before him.

He noticed Rapunzel first, clearly upset and visibly crying, then there was his receptionist who was fuming and next to them stood the groupie girl he'd tattooed with a butterfly the night he'd met Rapunzel.

"He did!" The groupie insisted.

"What? _No_. He wouldn't." Despite her words, he could see Rapunzel's bottom lip quivering, wavering in her resolve. She turned her watery green eyes at him, their gazes met for a moment. She looked hurt and disgusted and then she ran out the door.

Eugene ran after her, but he was too late. She was gone.

When he got back to the parlor, everyone else was still there, talking over each other.

Vlad was standing between the two women attempting to keep them apart; his receptionist was trying to reach around Vlad's wide girth and looked like she was going to murder the groupie if she succeeded in getting her hands on the girl.

There was a motion sensor on the front door that chimed when Eugene crossed the threshold.

Everyone stopped and stared at him, frozen in mid action.

"Will someone tell me what the _fuck_ is going on?"

His voice was preternaturally calm, even though he was seething inside and felt like his blood was about to boil over.

His receptionist pointed an accusatory finger at the girl on the other side of Vlad, "_She_ told your girlfriend every time she came in for a tattoo, you two were knocking boots in the back room!"

He could hear Vlad practically growl at the slanderous charge.

Eugene was livid. He turned to the girl with the smug, satisfied look on her face and he quickly wiped it off of her.

"Are you fucking crazy?!"

The girl stared at him dumbstruck for a moment, but when she opened her mouth to answer him, he cut her off.

"Forget it! Don't answer that! I don't give a fuck! Get out!"

He couldn't say how long the girl stood there. It didn't matter. She became irrelevant and dissolved into the parlor's surroundings like the potted plant in the corner, the black leather sofa and the tattoo flashes on the wall, as his mind raced to come up with a plan to find the only girl who'd ever meant something to him.

He noticed for the first time that in her rush to leave him, Rapunzel had left behind a very sad, very blue chameleon. He picked Pascal off the armrest and handed him to his receptionist.

"Stay here in case she comes back and if she does, don't let her out of your sight! I'll check back with you in an hour! Vlad, round up the pub thugs!"

"Right." He heard the burly man respond at the same time as the door chime announced the thug's departure.

Eugene picked up the phone and began dialing a number. "Officer Max? Rapunzel's in trouble. I need your help."

###

The storm pounded the small island mercilessly as the pub thugs and Officer Max and his men searched for Rapunzel.

Visibility was poor and the torrent made searching for a small girl in the darkness of night nearly impossible. Even so, they searched for hours and found no trace of her.

After everyone else had stopped their search for the night, he stood in the middle of the street in front of his parlor in the pouring rain calling out her name, his voice raw and throaty.

"Rapunzel! Rapunzel!"

* * *

**AN1:** I know a few of you were eagerly awaiting the next chapter. Sorry this update wasn't as cheery as you were probably expecting. If it's any consolation, I plotted this scene from the very beginning. Why? Because Flynn doesn't like to deal with his problems, hence the piles of laundry, the stacks of movies, etc. that don't get put away at first and all the minor repairs around the house that he ignores until Rapunzel moves in and he starts fixing things. Butterfly tattoo girl is also a problem he kept putting off. She tried to seduce him the first time he inked her, she was the groupie who tried to grab his thigh and stormed out of his parlor when he admitted he was interested in someone else, and the client who demanded Flynn come to the parlor the night he was taking care of his girl and her chameleon. The whole time her efforts were escalating and he kept on ignoring them. Flynn has a bad habit of not dealing with his problems, this chapter was just the natural culmination of that.

**AN2:** This is probably a good spot to mention that this story is wrapping up. I've got two more chapters and a very, very brief epilogue. I do plan on writing a short, follow up snippet about Rapunzel's background, so please keep a look out for that. **Jade1994**, I don't know if I possess the skill set necessary to write such a scene, but I appreciate the vote of confidence. Who knows, maybe after this story is over I might give it a try.

**AN3:** So, if you're wondering when this story takes place, I'd say early 1990s; you'll notice no one has cellphones or social media accounts. All of which would've been helpful in tracking down Rapunzel. I hope you continue with the story and please keep reviewing, faving and following.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

It was the worst night of his life. He finally came in from the downpour outside, from screaming into the unforgiving torrent until his throat was dry and raw. As soon as he crossed the threshold of his front door, he dropped the sunny yellow raincoat and matching galoshes she had left behind in her rush to get away from him. He scoffed humorlessly at the situation; it wasn't lost on him that he hadn't even wanted her to get wet tonight and now she was off somewhere getting drenched.

He felt miserable and dejected as he unzipped his jacket so Pascal could scurry off and dry himself in some dark corner of his apartment. He threw his keys in the general vicinity of the coffee table, not caring where they landed. All the lights were still off and he knew she wasn't there. The place felt cold and empty without her, much like his old life before she walked into his parlor with her warmth and boundless enthusiasm and turned everything on its head. He paced back and forth in his dark living room, running his fingers through his hair unsure of what to do with himself, unsure of what do next.

He felt like someone had punched him hard in the gut and was overcome with nausea as the contents of his stomach swirled violently, plotting against him and threatening to escape. It took every ounce of self-control he had just to keep it together, but every once in a while he felt the panic and fear bubbling up inside him, manifesting themselves in dry heaves he had to stomp back down.

In the back of his mind was the harrowing, nightmarish possibility that he might not be able to find her, that he might never see her again. It brought him to his knees and he braced the seat cushions for support. He wouldn't allow it. He wouldn't allow himself to even think in terms of "what ifs." As soon as the sun came up again, he was going back out there and he was going to find her and if she refused to talk to him, he was going to hound her until she relented.

There was no way he was losing her over this. He wasn't going to lose her over a stupid lie someone told her because if that person couldn't have him, then no one else could.

He didn't know how long he stayed in the living room before he finally decided to go to bed for lack of a better plan. That was a mistake. He felt much worse in the bedroom.

As he finished brushing his teeth, his eyes glanced every which way but the dry, lavender toothbrush in the toothbrush holder next to his own. He accidentally caught sight of her strawberry shampoo through the glass door of his shower stall and, in a brief moment of either weakness or insanity, he contemplated sniffing it the way delinquent kids sniffed paint to get a cheap high. He quickly shut the bathroom door behind him before he got any other crazy ideas.

The bed was still tidy and made; a remnant from this morning when things had been normal and happy between them, before his life had turned to complete and utter shit. He wasn't tired. His mind was racing and there was her side of the bed to contend with as he stared at it like some foreign, painful object. A bit of the cloth from her folded, polka dot pajamas was poking through from under her pillow as he stood looming over the bed debating whether he should get in it or not. For a moment he contemplated sleeping on the couch or on the floor, until he decided he was being ridiculous.

He took off his shoes and his clothes; they were no longer drenched like they had been when he first walked into the apartment, but they were still damp. He put on another shirt and a pair of jeans; he was going to get up in a few hours, just as soon as the sun came up, he might as well get dressed now.

He didn't bother closing the blinds before crawling into bed; his room glowed red from the neon sign of the Chinese restaurant across the street. In his darkest moment, he buried his face into her pillow taking in her scent as if he were trying to take in every last molecule of her into his lungs and hoping he'd hyperventilate in the process.

He was alone in the bed he was supposed to be sharing with her. Her clothes still hung in his closet, the charcoal sketch she'd made of him was still within arm's reach, everything was exactly like he had left it this morning, but there was no her. She was gone.

He noticed his old concert tee, folded neatly on top of the dresser. He recalled how he didn't want to lend it to her that first night because it was his favorite. Right now, he didn't care if she wanted to borrow it swan dive into a pool of purple paint. He just wanted her back.

When dawn came, he was on his back, wide awake staring at the ceiling fan. For a while he had counted the revolutions before even his eyes gave up and he stopped focusing on anything specific. The rain had stopped and the sun had finally broken through the dark night that had imprisoned it; that had imprisoned _him_.

He heard a knock on the front door and nearly fell off the bed in his rush to answer it. _Please be Rapunzel. Please be Rapunzel._ He opened it without looking through the peephole and his face fell when he saw it was the boy from the restaurant and _not_ Rapunzel. The boy shifted uncomfortably on the second floor landing for a moment, before motioning for Eugene to follow him.

The boy led him back to the restaurant. The woman everyone called Ma was standing behind the counter transforming ordinary cloth napkins into elegant swans. She took one look at Eugene and immediately went back into the kitchen as if she'd just remembered she'd left cocktail buns in the oven.

She brought back with her a small girl wearing the restaurant's uniform, a traditional red and gold cheongsam. The girl wouldn't look at him, but he could tell her eyes were puffy as if she'd been crying all night. Eugene rushed to her side, but before he could reach her, Ma stuffed a rolled up brown paper bag in front of his chest. He assumed it was the clothes she'd worn last night.

"Rapunzel? I thought I'd never see you again!" He told her as he wrapped his arms around her, still clutching the paper bag and felt her shaking when she began sobbing again. It was okay to admit that fear now. She was here; she was safe. "I never slept with her. I never slept with any of those women. You _have_ to believe me."

Ma's hands flew over her son's ears, much to the young boy's annoyance. She had returned to her original position behind the counter next to her swans and it was clear she wasn't leaving that spot. It was like her feet had sprouted roots onto the red carpeting. It was not like Ma to turn her back on juicy gossip, especially relationship gossip. Bringing people together was her self-professed specialty and she had just reunited two people. She was not about to turn her back on the fruits of her labor, especially when it was engrossingly being played out in front of her.

He was about to have a very private conversation in the presence of Ma and her son in the front room of their restaurant, but Eugene didn't care. It was his one shot at winning her back; he wasn't going to squander it to save face. He was prepared to grovel, if that's what it took to convince her of his sincerity.

Eugene tightened his hold on her. "I didn't think _this_, what you and I have, was possible. I didn't think I was capable of letting anyone into my life. Not since my parents died; not until you came along. I'm not going to throw that away just because some woman wants to take me to bed. I didn't sleep with her, I've never slept with any of those groupies, and I certainly _never_ cheated on you. I love _you_."

When she didn't respond, he kept talking.

"Look. You don't have worry about ever seeing her at the parlor again. She made a lot of thugs very angry last night, I doubt they'll let her walk on the same side of the street after the stunt she pulled, but I can't guarantee that this isn't going to happen again. Sometimes I work with the door closed, sometimes people request tattoos in strange places. It doesn't tempt me. I want you. Only you. You have to believe me. You have to trust me."

"I do." She responded before pulling him down for a wet, tear-salted kiss.

"Come on, let's go home." He smiled down at her.

###

They didn't make it past the living room. They made it only so far as the few steps from the front door to the couch.

Pascal rushed into the room to greet his found friend, but quickly caught on and ran out of there to go hide under the bed. They were both too preoccupied with each other to notice the thoroughly embarrassed lizard.

There were two awkward pauses. The first came after a few minutes of uncharacteristic fumbling on his part. "I have no idea how to get this thing off of you." He confessed when he broke the kiss, referring to her borrowed cheongsam. She took his hand and guided it to the hidden zipper on the side of the second came when he had to get up to retrieve a prophylactic from the drawer in his nightstand because he no longer carried one in his wallet.

He clung to her body the way a drowning man clung to life preserver, like his life depended on it. And she wrapped herself around him as if she'd had the same thought.

He'd never made love to her like this. It was possessive and needy and desperate - like his hands and his nose and his eyes and his ears were all trying to assure themselves that she was really here again in his arms, where she was meant to be. And maybe in his all-consuming desire to get closer to her, he wasn't gentle as he ordinarily would have been. Maybe he dispensed with some of that delicacy in his urgent rush to quell the yearning he felt for her.

Afterward, he took her back to their room and held onto her until both of them succumbed to sleep. It didn't take long; neither one of them had slept the night before.

###

She stared at herself in the mirror above the bathroom sink for what felt like a really long time. He glanced at her surreptitiously from time to time from his perch on the bed under tousled sheets.

She was acting strange, quiet and pensive, not at all her usual self. She was always so affectionate and talkative afterwards. She would rest her head on his chest and he would hold her close, lightly running his hands over her until her soft skin would prickle under his touch. He'd breathe her in through his nose and ink indecipherable little designs on her bare back with his fingertips as she went over every delicious detail - like he hadn't been there, like he'd casually stepped out of the room and she was filling him in on all the fun he'd missed - until she was too distracted by his touch to string together a coherent thought, until he'd silence her with his lips. It was a huge turn on for him, a continuous feedback loop that was in no small part responsible for the fact that with her, one thing always led to another.

"You marked me." She declared flatly, holding her short hair up with one hand and craning her neck to inspect his handiwork in the mirror.

"_Shit_, I'm sorry, Babe." He said as he scrambled out of bed to inspect the purple splotch he'd made just below her ear.

He had gotten carried away. He really shouldn't have kissed her so roughly; he really needed to be more careful with her. He began to mutter a second apology when his eyes met hers in the mirror and he noticed she didn't look upset about it. She had a smug grin on her face. She turned around and stared up at him, planting her hands firmly on his bare chest.

"I want you to mark me . . . permanently." She told him.

She had never talked about getting a tattoo before, although she could spend hours admiring his and often did. He had thought about it of course. He had thought about how titillating it would be to leave a part of him on her body in indelible ink.

It was a strange craving for him to have considering how he tattooed people day in and day out and never thought twice about how he was leaving his mark on them too. But then again, he'd always regarded her differently. She had a way of doing that to him. Of making him feel like the things he'd done countless times before were new and different and a thousand times more meaningful when he did them with her.

She was adorable and sexy and beautiful all rolled into a tight little package and she didn't need a tattoo to make her more appealing to him. Then again, he knew it wasn't about that. He never looked down at people who weren't inked. He didn't think of them as plain or boring, or conformists; he knew better. He knew that tattoos were about self-expression. Tattoos were an art form, like painting, or sculpting, or writing, or dancing. They commemorated important events. They were a way of telling one's life story or remembering things or people you loved. _She wanted a tattoo and she wanted him to be the one to give it to her. _The thought made his fingers itch for his machine.

He asked her if she was going to use one of her tattoo flashes, the ones that were selling like gangbusters downstairs in the parlor, or if she was going to draw something new. She surprised him when she told him she wanted him to design it.

###

Every Sunday there was a farmer's market by the wharf. There were fruit stands and fish stands and vendors selling all sorts of wares. He stood on the cobblestone street with a chameleon on his head content to hold a burlap sack filled to the brim with fresh produce and a few knickknacks while Rapunzel cheerfully chatted with a vegetable merchant about his newest crop of radishes.

"I find that if you sprinkle some egg shells into the soil, it helps them spout leaves faster." The old man told her.

As the two of them talked, he couldn't help but think that the old Flynn wouldn't have recognized him. The old Flynn would've still been in bed recovering from a hangover or worse, doing the walk of shame. The old Flynn wouldn't have been caught dead at a farmer's market on a Sunday morning just because it was a certain girl's idea of fun. Then again, the old Flynn hadn't been this happy.

"And we'll need to stop at the wine shop on our way home." She told him.

"Wine? You don't like wine."

"It's not for me."

"Oh." He took a closer look at the items in the bag he was carrying. Several boxes of tapered beeswax candle sticks, imported cheese, arugula, a box of those fancy table crackers, paper frills for the racks of lamb she had ordered from the butcher.

The parlor was closed on Sundays, so it wasn't unusual for her to cook an elaborate dinner on those nights. He was spoiled in that she really was an amazing cook. He knew the food she had picked up was too much for the two of them, but he still didn't know what she was up to and he liked teasing her so he toyed with her a bit.

"Are you going to all this trouble just for me, Babe? Cause you know, I put out quite easily."

"It's not for you." she retorted, extending her hand so that Pascal could safely climb onto her shoulder before shoving him off the sidewalk for his cheeky comment.

"Oh? Got some poor schlub on the side? I almost feel sorry for the guy; he can't compete with my superhuman good looks and my irresistible charm."

He gave her a cocky grin and despite her eye roll, he knew she secretly liked his air of confidence and borderline narcissism.

"So, I take it we're having company over tonight?" He asked seriously.

"Yup."

"Anyone I know?"

"It's two people you know."

"Oh?"

"Have you noticed Vlad has been coming around the parlor a lot more lately?" She hinted.

". . . . Yeah."

"I think he's in love."

"Oh _no_. I can tell you right now she's _not_ interested."

Rapunzel's face fell. Her expression reminded him of a kid who'd just dropped his ice cream cone on the sidewalk.

"Why? Did she say something to you?" She pouted.

". . . . No. But she's got a type. If the guy's not an asshole who treats her like garbage, she's won't give him the time of day. I can't believe I'm saying this about Vlad, but he's too nice."

"Oh." Rapunzel shrugged in discouragement.

His receptionist had regarded Rapunzel with apprehension when Eugene first brought her to the parlor. She had mistook her for a competitor, back when she was still bouncing back and forth between his apprentices. But Rapunzel had worn down her jaded exterior and had won her over.

To her credit, she stuck up for him, when that girl was spewing malicious lies and she had been singlehandedly responsible for uncovering Rapunzel's immense talent for drawing, even if she had given her those colored pencils to keep her away from the attentions of her male co-workers. She wasn't a bad person. She just had some pretty messed up ideas about love and dating. Then again, so had he and he had managed to turn it all around. Maybe she deserved that opportunity too.

He wasn't going to be the one to take the wind out of Rapunzel's sails. If his girl wanted to play Cupid for two people with nothing in common, who was he to stand in her way?

"Come on, I know which cabernet she likes best."

She grinned up at him as he reached for her hand.

* * *

**AN1: **Oh my goodness **Crocodile**! You seriously made my day. I can't wait to see the fan art you make for this fan fic. As for what Inked!Flynn looks like, the only tattoos that would be visible with a shirt on would be the tattoo sleeves that run down both of his arms. I always pictured them in black ink (not colored) and wild and chaotic. I'm thinking skulls and maybe crashing waves or a broken compass or ship wheel, things that would symbolize being untethered, directionless, and in trouble. There would probably be some coins and gemstones to mark his obsession with getting rich or his earlier run ins with the law. Maybe a palm tree or palm fronds to represent his old dream. Some foreshadowing would be cool, maybe items that were used in some of these chapters? IDK. Feel free to pick and choose and add anything else you think would fit. He probably thinks his face is perfection, so I don't see him messing with face piercings. He definitely would've experimented with hair color when he was younger, but he's pushing 29 in this fic, since Rapunzel is 21, so by now he's probably settled back into chocolate brown. Hope this helps. I'm so excited!

**AN2:** **Beta Gyre**, they say write what you know, but sometimes writng what you don't know is a lot more fun. I'm not terribly confident that I'm using the jargon properly, but I certainly gained a lot of appreciation for tattoos and people who have them from researching this fic. =D

**AN3:** We're one chapter and one short epilogue away from finishing this story. I'm kind of sad about that; I don't think I'm ready to part with this AU just yet. At least there's the follow up ficlet about Rapunzel's parents to write and maybe, possibly that smutty one-shot for **Jade1994**. Thank you guys for the reviews, favs and follows. I get ridiculously giddy when I receive one. This little project wouldn't be nearly as fun without your comments and feedback and encouragement. So if you're on the fence about leaving a review, please write one.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

"The key to seduction is subtlety." he told her as he pushed the eject button to expel the CD of top 40 smarmy love ballads that were popular two decades ago when people still owned bell bottoms and avocado green was an appliance color. He scanned down the playlist that had been scrawled in sloppy permanent marker on the front side of the disc. "Yeesh, where'd you get this?"

"From Big Nose."

"Well, that's one reason he can't get a date. This stuff is terrible. You don't want to bash the poor girl over the head with cheesy love songs. You want to get her in the right frame of mind. You want to suggest things without being suggestive. . . . Here, I've got a playlist for this sort of thing." He rifled through his jewel cases until he found the one he was looking for. He popped his CD into the player and fast forwarded it to the bridge of one of the songs.

"There. You hear that groove? Not too fast or too slow? I could go all night at that pace." He told her. He began to unconsciously sway to the track until he noticed and stopped.

"_Hmm_" She said looking flustered as she reluctantly peeled her eyes from his hips.

"And what's with all the candles?" He asked.

"I was setting the mood."

"Look, if you want to have a romantic candlelit dinner with me -"

"And Pascal." she added.

". . . And Pascal," he conceded. "Have at it, but if Vlad walks in here and all these candles are lit the guy's going to run out of here screaming."

###

Their dinner guests arrived uncharacteristically early. Rapunzel was still getting dressed when Eugene opened the door for Vlad. He did a double take when he saw the large burly man; he'd never seen the thug without his helmet before. _Was that pomade on his head? _It's too bad none of the pub thugs had expressed any interest in hairdressing; Vlad's curls could've used some more taming.

The girl Rapunzel was hoping to set up with Vlad arrived a few minutes later. She was an even stranger sight to behold. In all the years Eugene had worked with her, she had never, ever worn a dress before and her hair looked pinker than usual.

Aside from a polite greeting, Vlad and his intended date didn't say another word to each other. Eugene had to work really hard to keep a conversation going. He would talk to Vlad and he would talk to her, but neither one of them talked to each other. He felt like a ping pong ball between them. He kept anxiously glancing at the hallway for Rapunzel to appear. This was torture and it hadn't even been his idea.

He figured they should all start drinking _now_, before things got really awkward. He handed her a wineglass, grabbed a beer for Vlad and poured himself a glass of scotch. He was convinced he was in for a long night. There was no way things were going to progress between these two the way Rapunzel wanted. They had nothing in common. He wasn't even sure they'd ever seen each other outside of the parlor before. He had been in situations before where he felt out of place, but he'd never been in one where everyone in the room felt out of place. The CD he'd selected earlier was now playing in the background. It was a compilation of songs that had been the soundtrack of his bachelor days; they were inextricably intermingled with those memories and only upped the strangeness of the situation.

Things were not going well at all until Rapunzel walked in. Everyone seemed relieved to see her and Eugene immediately forgot about the small talk he'd been trying to maintain. She wore a black backless number with Pascal accessorizing her shoulder, like a weird, scaly brooch. It was decidedly more adult than the pastel sundresses he was used to seeing her in when she dressed up and his eyes naturally followed the curve of her spine coming to rest at her backside. It was where his hands wanted to follow, but he kept them firmly on his glass. _This dinner party couldn't be over fast enough. _When she approached him, he vacated his seat for her, leaving her to talk freely and easily with their two dinner guests as he headed to the kitchen to mix one of those awful fruity drinks she liked so much. He knew why she liked them, they were sugary and sweet and masked the taste of alcohol.

Eugene brought the drink over to Rapunzel who by now was engrossed in a conversation with his receptionist and Vlad about a well-known collector who had stopped by the parlor that week. As he sat on the armrest of couch, he noted that the two girls had grown closer after the night of the storm. It had been a hellish experience for him and it still shocked him how close he had come to losing her. He knew that Rapunzel felt extremely guilty about not trusting him that night and giving credence to the word of a delusional stranger over everything she knew about him. It wasn't something either of them was particularly eager to revisit. So they hadn't talked about it since their reunion the following morning at the restaurant.

Still, there was something about that night he wanted to know. The opportunity came to him when one of the girls went into the kitchen to pour herself another glass of wine.

It was just the two of them, Rapunzel had remained in the living room and was showing Vlad Pascal's new trick. The frog could now change colors according to the kind of fruit she plopped in his mouth. _Great_. He hoped she wasn't feeding him fruit from the bottom of her glass, the last thing he needed was a drunk chameleon. He'd have to keep track of her drink intake too. She was a lightweight; he'd learned that lesson the hard way the night he brought her home with him.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Why'd you do it?" He didn't need to elaborate, they both knew what he was referring to.

"I don't know," She shrugged, "I guess I've never seen you this happy before, Flynn. You're a great boss and you're a good person. You would never have cheated on her. I knew that. I didn't believe that story for a second. And you deserve this." She gestured towards Rapunzel, "I didn't want to see you lose _her_ over some bullshit story some crazy bitch made up."

"Thank you for stepping in." He told her sincerely. "I don't even want to think about how differently it would've all turned out if you'd gone home early with everyone else that night, if you hadn't been there to run interference."

He took a swig of his drink just to quell the thought.

"Do you like him?" He asked her. He normally minded his own business and didn't meddle into other people's lives, but after the night of the storm, he'd learned there was something to be said in favor of meddling.

She rolled her eyes at him looking like she wasn't sure she wanted to answer the question.

"I don't know. I guess it's worth a shot, right? Maybe I should give someone new a chance after wasting all those years on that shit head."

She too was trying to find some courage at the bottom of her wineglass.

"I can't believe I wore a dress." She confessed feeling self-conscious under his watch. "I even got my hair done. I don't know what I'm doing here. I thought about canceling tonight. You know me, I'm no good at this, Flynn. What if it doesn't work out, what if I - -"

"You can't know. Not yet, anyway, it's too soon. But that's the good part, I guess. You get to figure it out along the way," he said as he took another sip and gazed at Rapunzel from across the room.

###

Eugene didn't have a dining room table. He had a drafting table instead so Rapunzel served a sumptuous five course meal over the kitchen counter. After they finished the fourth course, Eugene help Rapunzel clear the plates and the four of them sat around the counter talking.

Despite the initial awkward attempts at small talk, the conversation had flowed once Rapunzel joined the party and it hadn't stopped since. She had a way of putting people at ease with each other.

"And here's my newest tattoo." Vlad said in his low, rumbly voice as he pulled his shirt up a bit to reveal ink over a large swath of skin.

"It's beautiful. Flynn, you did a really nice job on it." She remarked, before turning her attention to Vlad again. "I've always liked unicorns."

"_Really?_" Eugene interjected incredulously before Rapunzel elbowed him hard in the ribs.

"Yeah, ever since I was a little girl, I always wanted one until my smart aleck older brother told me they didn't exist. It was like my dreams died that day."

"Aww. I'm sorry to hear that. They may not be real but they sure are pretty. I collect ceramic ones, you know?"

"Really? Hmmm, I didn't know that about you."

"Sure. I've collected them since I was a kid. I have a whole mess of them in my room back at the pub - -"

"I'd love to see them."

". . . Yeah, you should drop by, sometime. I'll show them to you."

"No, I mean I want to see them right now."

"_Right now_?" Vlad echoed her words before turning to Flynn and Rapunzel and looking unsure of what to do next.

Eugene knew a proposition when he heard one, having been on the receiving end of many, but Rapunzel was new at this game.

"But the pie's still in the - -" Eugene's hand flew over Rapunzel's mouth muffling the rest of her words. It was his turn to censor her, even if his ribs were still smarting from his earlier miscue. He let out an exaggerated yawn and looked at the wrist watch on his free hand. "Is it 9:30 already? Will you look at that? Time sure flies when you're having fun. Don't worry about finishing the wine." he told his receptionist. "You know what? Take your glass with you. Here's the rest of the bottle," he eagerly offered.

"Alright, if you're both okay with us leaving now." She said as she took the bottle from him.

"Sure, we're okay!" He responded letting go of Rapunzel only when he was sure she was done with her muffled protests.

Rapunzel and Eugene bid them goodbye from the second floor landing. Vlad extended his meaty arm to his date so he could escort her down the cement staircase. As they made their way down the stairs, the girl with carnation pink hair turned around, smiled dazzlingly and mouthed "Thank you."

###

He was scrubbing the last of the serving dishes before handing it to her to rinse when she expressed disappointment that the night had ended before her pie was out of the oven. He knew this was coming, she'd been pouting since their guests left.

"I guess neither one of them had a good time, if they left in such a hurry." She casted a sad glance at the peach cobbler that was now cooling off in the windowsill behind the kitchen sink.

"Oh, I don't know about that Babe. I wouldn't be surprised if he's still showing her that ceramic unicorn collection of his right now." He said with a wince, trying hard to suppress the image that involuntarily crept into his head.

He dried his hands on the dish towel that hung from the oven door handle before grabbing a pair of forks from the silverware drawer and reaching for the pressurized can of whipped cream in the fridge.

He met up with her in the living room placing the things he'd been carrying on the coffee table next to the cobbler she had brought with her before popping a movie into the video player.

He sat down next to her on the couch, lifting his arm up so she could settle herself against his flank in the space he created just for her. Pascal smiled lazily in her lap as she petted the ridge at the top of his head looking like he might've imbibed too much fruit juice and was about to doze off.

Tonight's feature was a black and white silent film about sentient killer meteors from outer space. At least that's what the synopsis on the back cover said. He thought the outer space part of the description was redundant. _Where else would they come from? _But he had to admit that while there wasn't a lot of thought put into some of these movies, it was the kind of mindless fun he liked to unwind to. In any case, he wasn't planning on finishing the movie tonight. There was the matter of that little black dress that was even more distracting now that their guests were gone and he had every intention of removing that distraction, if she were so inclined.

He placed the pie dish on his own lap and handed her a fork as he kissed the top of her head, neither one of them bothering to use a plate.

The sweet and tart filling sent his taste buds into overdrive and made his mouth water.

"Hmmm, this is really amazing, Babe. _You're_ really amazing." He said in between forkfuls.

She beamed at the compliment like someone who still wasn't used to being praised very often. But then she got that doleful look in her eyes, the kind she got whenever she talked about her mother. Eugene knew enough about the woman to hate her and he was grateful that the witch hadn't tried to find Rapunzel. He knew when she got like this it was best to distract her. There was no point in reflecting on the past, for either of them. What was done was done and they couldn't do anything about that. He wanted her to focus on the present and on the future, on _their_ future, and he knew just how to remind her of that. He kissed her cheek and then slowly made his way down her neck. He smiled against her skin when she leaned her head to the side, giving him better access.

"Would _you_ like to see my ceramic unicorn collection?" He teasingly offered.

"_Eugene_, you don't have a ceramic unicorn collection. You have a tattoo collection."

"Alright then, how about I show you that?"

###

He spent the next few days pouring over his art books and sketching, the floor under his drafting table was littered with crumpled up drawings. He normally worked freestyle, but this, the concept, the design, the execution, required meticulous planning. He wanted it to be different from any of the tattoos he'd done before. He was determined to come up with something beautiful, something as unique and special as she was.

He played around with different symbols and meanings, but so far he wasn't happy with anything he'd come up with. When the inspiration finally struck, he felt a rush of excitement. He couldn't sketch it down fast enough.

"I've never seen anything like it." She remarked in awe as she leaned over his shoulder to get a closer look.

"It's the magic golden flower." He explained as he placed an arm over her waist so she would settle on his lap. There weren't any sketches of this flower in the books he had researched, no one had ever seen it. No one was sure it existed. So this was just his rendition of what it might've looked like.

"It's from an old folk tale," He told her. "It was said that a single drop of sunlight fell from the heavens and from this drop of sun grew a magic golden flower. It had the ability to heal the sick and injured. It could even bring people back to life after they - -"

He lifted her chin so she would look at him. "That's how I felt before I met you. Dead inside. . . . You brought me back from that." It was true. He'd been alive, but not really living, before she came along. She had brought him back from the dead in a way; she had saved him from his empty and unfulfilling life.

"It's beautiful." She told him as she pulled him down by the front of his shirt and kissed him.

###

It felt strange seeing her sitting in his chair, like one of his clients, like she had been the night they met. He'd done this a million times with other people, but at the moment he felt a nervous excitement. They'd picked a Sunday because the parlor was closed that day. He wanted to take his time with her and avoid the usual chatter and interruptions. It was just the two of them and the room where he worked felt decidedly intimate.

He'd normally have had his playlist of punk rock classics blasting in the background, but he wanted to concentrate on her. He wanted to hear every gasp, every breath sucked in through gritted teeth and feel every tremble beneath his hands. He wanted to make this as painless and comfortable as possible for her and he wanted to be tuned in to every clue she gave him.

He felt a tinge of male pride when she showed him where she wanted it, a spot where only he would see it, where even her skimpiest of bikinis wouldn't give her away. They told no one. It would be a sultry little secret between the two of them. One of many they now shared.

He took her small hand and placed it on his thigh. "Here. You can just squeeze my leg if it hurts too much and I'll stop." He told her.

She never did. She bore it in one sitting with only the faintest of whimpers. When he finished, he took a moment to admire his work. He'd left his mark on her and he felt a sense of possessiveness towards her he hadn't expected. She'd never looked more claimed. She'd never looked more . . . _his_. She belonged to _him_. She was _his_ and no one else's. It made his heart swell and seize all at the same time. And as he reflected upon that truth, he also noted with equal conviction that he belonged to her.

He bandaged her up carefully, quietly before removing his black latex gloves and depositing them in the nearby waste receptacle. If she were a client, this was the time he would meticulously go over the aftercare instructions. He felt a rush of warmth when he realized that he didn't need to with her; he would be there to watch over her, to take care of her, to make sure she was alright. He would be with her much longer than that.

* * *

**AN: **Okay, I had said this would be the last chapter, but it got so long when I started writing it that I had to break it up into two. So you're getting two chapter updates, one tonight and the other possibly tomorrow. Yay?


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

A few weeks later he went back to the man who had taught him his craft, the man who had been his mentor. The old man had long since retired. He had considerable health problems and inked only on rare occasions and only for the people he cared about the most. The old man had inked every tattoo on Eugene's body and he wouldn't have entrusted this one to anyone else.

When he arrived at the familiar, nondescript bungalow on the northern part of the island, a woman answered the door. She was the second to the last person he had expected to see here. She no longer lived in Corona and on her infrequent visits to the place, she rarely made time to see her father.

She hadn't changed much since he had last seen her. The same waist length, jet black hair, blunt bangs, and blood red lips that contrasted shockingly with her pale, alabaster skin.

He had always found her beautiful like a marked up china doll or a tattooed mid-century pinup. She wore a black, thin strapped tanked top that showed off the artwork on her chest and arms. Some of it was her fathers, some of it was his own, and others he recognized from their time together, but had never bothered to ask her where or who they came from.

Her cerulean eyes were still the same shade except they betrayed a sadness he had never seen in them before. He wasn't sure if he had caught her in an unguarded moment or if he had just never bothered to notice her eyes before. She had always kept things from him. They had worked together for weeks during their apprenticeship before he learned that their mentor was also her father. Despite the forlorn eyes she cast him, she looked exactly how he remembered her.

"Haven't spoken to you in a while. Not since the start of the summer, not since you stood me up at that bar." she said as she stood by the door.

When she spoke, he noticed a tongue ring that he had never seen before and it instantly jogged his memory. It all came full circle then. The night he met Rapunzel he'd been working late in the parlor and he was supposed to meet up with her at that bar across town, but he never made it. He rubbed the back of his head embarrassed. He realized just now that he never called her and told her he wasn't coming.

He'd never thought about it before, but he'd had three appointments with three different women that night. The first one turned out to be that psycho bitch that almost ruined him. The second turned out to be the love of his life, his only love. And the third, well she was standing in front of him now and he shuddered to think how frivolous his life would've still been if he had made it to that bar that night and they had hooked up like they had planned to.

He had never been the kind of person who believed in things like fate and destiny, but it unnerved him to think what would've happened if he hadn't stopped to take care of a drunk, lost, lonely girl who needed him to protect her from unscrupulous men then and whom he needed now like he needed to draw his next breath.

"How have you been, Flynn?" Her question shook him out of his reverie.

"I've been . . . . _great_, actually."

"Well you look great, you always did." She paused as she mulled over her next words carefully, her eyes no longer meeting his. "My father tells me you're in love."

"It's true." He confessed.

"I guess I just had to hear it from you before I could allow myself to believe it." She let out a strangled high pitched little laugh. "Flynn Rider in love, I never thought I'd see the day." She said to herself, before growing quiet.

"Did you ever feel anything? All those times we . . . ." She trailed off.

". . . . Um." He thought they'd had a mutual understanding about their rendezvous. She had always been so casual about it that it never occurred to him that she had feelings for him. Neither one of them wanted anything more to come of their meetings, she had told him as much. He was sure of it.

He wished she would've said something back then. It wouldn't have changed the way he felt about her, he had never developed romantic feelings for her, but he certainly wouldn't have messed around with her if he'd known how she felt about him. Maybe that's why she kept it from him.

He didn't say this to her, but he didn't think it would've made a difference. He didn't think he would've changed for just anyone. If he hadn't met Rapunzel, he would've still been out there. Sleeping with women and perhaps from time to time sleeping with her, an old acquaintance who he now realized he didn't know as well as he thought he did.

Although he felt bad that he had unknowingly hurt her, he couldn't join her in longing for what could've have been. He had always been upfront and honest with her, even the first time when he had told her his intentions weren't romantic and she had assured him that that wasn't what she wanted from him. He had told her he couldn't feel that towards anyone and at the time he believed those words to be true. It was evident now that that wasn't the case. And maybe that's what twisted the knife in her chest and prompted her to confess to him now.

They had shared some good times, kept each other company on random, lonely nights, sometimes drunk, sometimes sober. That's all they'd ever done. That's all they ever were to each other. He'd never shared a life with her, he had never taken care of her or guarded her secrets, like he did with Rapunzel.

"You've ruined me, you know . . . . I compare every guy I'm with to you and well . . . . It's really not fair."

He didn't know how to respond to that and so there was an uncomfortable silence between them.

"You should probably come in." she said as if she just realized she was blocking his entrance, as if she just remembered the reason he was here in the first place, to see her father and not to see her. She stepped aside and held the door open for him.

"Dad's waiting for you in the back room, you know the way." She gave him a sad smile that matched her eyes, like someone who had just come to terms with her fate.

As he crossed the threshold, he noticed the suitcase next to the door and looked at her.

"I was supposed to leave yesterday, but my father mentioned you were coming to see him today," she admitted. "I guess I just couldn't leave without seeing you this time."

They were both silent again for a moment, before she spoke again.

"She must be really something, if she managed to tame you." She said as she shook her head and emitted an almost imperceptible laugh, "the girl who tamed Rider."

"She is," he responded with a reflective smile.

She grew quiet again as if she were choosing whether to confide in him someone else's secret.

"I know my father would never say this to you. He was never good at expressing his feelings. A family trait, I guess. But . . . he always wanted a son. It's probably why he and I don't get along very well. . . . And well . . . you were the closest he ever came to that."

She cleared her throat before continuing, an attempt to dispel the somber mood between them.

"You should come by more often. And bring her!" There was a forced cheerfulness in her voice this time that convinced no one.

"I'm sure my father would love to meet her." she said, this time sounding sincere, as she grabbed the leather handle and lifted her suitcase.

"I'm sure she'd like that." He said, before leaning down to kiss her on the cheek; it was the first time they had an awkward goodbye in all these years of coming and going.

"I'm sure we'll see each other again." She lied as she closed the door behind her.

###

The tattoo he got was a larger version of the one he'd given her. He chose to position it on his right flank; its top petals extended just over the start of his thorax in a nod to Adam's rib. He thought he was through getting inked, but none of his tattoos represented her. He wanted something to mark her presence and importance in his life. This tattoo showed her rightful place by his side.

He got home late that night. It had been years since he'd last visited his mentor and he had lost track of time catching up with the old man.

When he walked into the bedroom, she was already asleep with Pascal on their bed, a comfortable nest of soft sheets and fluffy pillows. He unplugged the heating pad she'd left on the floor and removed the half-drunk mug of tea from the nightstand. He knew she hadn't been feeling well that morning, he knew the first day was always the worst for her. When he sat on his side of the bed to take off his boots, his weight on the mattress awoke her. He couldn't bring himself to feel bad about that, he'd missed her, especially after the unexpected run in he had had today.

He wasn't planning on telling her that someone from his past had confessed to being in love with him. It was unnecessary and it would needlessly worry her. But he felt grateful to be home again, to be with her.

He felt small, warm arms wrap themselves around his shoulders and he held them in place with his hands. She kissed his cheek before resting the side of her face against the top of his shoulder blade and sighing contently.

"Hey." She whispered.

"Hey, how are you feeling?"

"Better." She said as if she had more important things on her mind.

He reached back so he could bring her around to sit on his lap; they were both mindful of his tender skin.

"May I see it?" She asked as her fingers flew to the hem of his shirt in anticipation.

"Sure." He said holding on to her tiny waist with one hand while he reached over to turn on the reading lamp on his nightstand with the other.

He pulled his shirt over his head and then began tugging at the corners of the surgical tape. She gasped, covering her mouth with both hands when he peeled back the white, cottony gauze to give her a peek.

"I love it." She exclaimed.

"Me too." He agreed, smiling down at it like a proud father bringing a newborn babe home from the hospital.

The wound was fresh, it glistened with ointment and his skin was red from the rounds of needles, but he could already tell it was going to be a thing of beauty. Just like the person it symbolized, just like she was.

"Hey," He fit both her hands in one of his. "I love you, you know that?"

"Hmm," she sighed happily, "You might've mentioned it a few times in passing."

She rested her forehead on his firm, naked chest. "Rapunzel, Rapunzel," he whispered as he ran his free hand through her short, chocolate locks.

###

It took two full weeks for his tattoo to heal and when it did it matched her smaller one perfectly.

"You're fine where you are. You don't need to move." he murmured in her ear when she started to turn around, her slim body still pinned to the mattress under his weight.

She turned her head to the side to look back at him as if she couldn't quite believe that that was the case. They had always faced each other when they did this, she writhing beneath him or towering above him.

When he proved her wrong, the realization dawned and played on her features. It reminded him of a time-lapse video of a sunrise, the confusion in her furrowed brow and pouty bottom lip slowly giving way to a mischievous grin soon followed by that familiar half lidded gaze and slackened jaw, telltale signs he knew so well.

Afterwards, she asked him why they'd never tried it like this before.

"What? And deprive you of the pleasure of seeing my handsome face? That would be criminal," he joked.

"You always look like you're being murdered." She giggled.

"Oh yeah? Well you always look like you're about to cry." He playfully retorted.

The truth was a lot more embarrassing. The truth was that he had only ever been with one girl he loved and so he didn't really know how else to take her except in the most missionary of configurations. All the ways he'd brought those other women to their unraveling, well, he wasn't sure if it proper for him to do that with her. _Yeah_, it sounded stupid even in his head and there was no way he was owning up to it.

"So what else can you show me?" She waggled her brows suggestively. A gesture she learned from him.

He smirked as he reached behind her to grab a dusty old book, a dark gray nondescript hardcover that sat on the horizontal bookshelf that doubled as his headboard. It had been years since he cracked open its spine, a memento that had been left behind from that week he had "dated" a contortionist who had come into town with the circus.

He handed the book over to her, purposely keeping it closed and watching as her eyes widened in amazement when the pages spilled over her lap. He'd never grow tired of that expression, the look she got when she discovered something new and wonderful. The look he was certain he mirrored when he looked at her, at times like this when they were alone.

He couldn't help the sheepish smile that began to tug up at the corners of his mouth and spread into a full on grin. There was a reason the pages were well worn and dog-eared. In his younger years, the book had been more than a causal acquaintance. He had followed its detailed instructions, studied its colorful illustrations, and even made his own handwritten annotations and suggestions in the margins after he'd put its advice to good use.

Ever the student, she poured through the pages. He chuckled softly as she turned the book sideways or upside down to get a better look at the drawings and when she read the names out loud - - it sounded like she was reciting poetry. Names like the _Floating Lotus_, the _Hummingbird_, and the _Shooting Star_ sounded like free verse when it came out of her still love-bitten mouth. It was like he was hearing them for the first time.

For a moment he panicked. He didn't want her to read too much into him having thoughtlessly handed her an instruction manual, even worse it was just moments after they'd been together. The thought did occur to him that she might take it the wrong way, that she might misinterpret the gesture and think he was bored with her or dissatisfied with her inexperience. It upset him to think that she might feel intimidated, that she might feel insecure about her own abilities because he'd been around the block enough times to make his head spin and she was just starting out.

"Look, Rapunzel. You have nothing to worry abou- -"

"I want to try all of them." She said as she looked up at him with eager eyes, his lips still frozen mid-sentence.

"All of them?" He mouthed, relieved to hear that his fears had been unfounded and more than a little a stirred at the prospect. He moved to settled behind her, patting the space between his knees on the bed, so she could sit there. She recline on his chest while he nuzzled her hair and wrapped his arms around her narrow waist as she flipped through the pages pointing things out to him and giggling at the remarks he'd made in the margins. Eugene shook his head, at his poor, misguided younger self. He felt sorry for that guy, he didn't have _this_. He tightened his hold around her waist.

It was a moment of complete and utter bliss. In that one moment it occurred to him that everything was perfect. He had everything he ever wanted, right there, not within reach, but enclosed safely in his arms.

There was only one thing left to say: _Marry me_.

He didn't propose to her in that instant, although he really wanted to. It wasn't that he had reservations about her or doubts about their relationship. He was crazy about her and he knew he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. He'd known that for some time now. It was that she had just turned 21 this summer and his 29th birthday was around the corner. He'd had time to figure himself out, to make mistakes, really stupid mistakes. Her life had just begun. She would be starting art classes at Corona University in the fall. He knew that things were going to be different then. He knew that while she would still be earning royalties on her tattoo flashes and any paintings she sold, she wasn't going to be coming to work with him anymore in the evenings. It was going to be an adjustment for both of them, but he wanted her to finish school and he wanted to give her some time to find herself. In the meantime, he'd live in the very enjoyable present.

He trailed his bottom lip lazily along the shell of her ear until he could see the faint hairs on her arms stand up on end, until he had her undivided attention.

"How about we give this one a try?" he purred.

###

Lucky for him, she was a quick study and graduated from the art program with honors and distinctions a few short years later. He couldn't have been more proud of her.

Their social circle had expanded considerably. It now not only included his employees, the pub thugs, Officer Max, the shopkeeper, their yoga instructor, the vegetable merchant, and his mentor, but her art school friends and professors as well. Their apartment was too small to host that many people, so he rented out The Snuggly Ducking for the occasion.

Later that night, after everyone had gone home and they were back at their apartment, he proposed. After years of waiting and waiting and waiting to ask her, he finally heard her say yes.

###

Several months later Ma got a wedding invitation in the mail. She framed it and displayed it prominently on the wall behind the cash register. It always made Eugene smile when he walked over to the restaurant for takeout. He never bothered to point out to Ma that he and Rapunzel already knew each other, that they had already been in a relationship the night of the storm. The way Ma saw it she'd brought them together; she'd made a match. Eugene was eternally grateful for that.

###

As she sat in bed admiring the large, princess cut diamond that now sparkled on her ring finger, she asked him how long he'd been thinking about proposing to her. When he told her, she laughed and jokingly teased that the thought occurred to him only after she'd mentioned that she wanted to try out every position in his book. They both laughed at her observation, but it wasn't the truth. He had decided to propose to her then because in that moment he realized he'd found his way home.

It was the summer she had decided her life would begin and she ended up changing his in the process.

* * *

**AN1: **In case it's not clear from my spotty description, the location of Eugene's tattoo is where Gothel would've stabbed him, like she did in the movie, if she hadn't turned to dust before Chapter 1 started.

**AN2:** Well this is (truly) the last chapter; there will be a very short epilogue that will be posted later in the week. You can tell I had a hard time letting go of this AU because chapters 11 and 12 are longer than any of the others. The companion ficlet to Inked will be called **Disclosure** and it's where Rapunzel learns who she really is. It's in response to a review from **fictionadict24**, who wanted more backstory on Rapunzel. I've already started writing it, it will probably be rated T. So keep a look out for it in the coming days, if you're interested.

**AN3: **I can't end this story without a huge shout out to my beta, **Wolfram-and-Hart-Sauron**. Thank you for all your help and all the time you spent on this story. I really, really appreciate it. Thanks to everyone who read, reviewed, faved, and followed. I've had so much fun writing this and reading your feedback.

**AN4:** There are two links to fan art of Flynn's mentor's daughter in my profile page. Thank you Noa30. She's exactly the way I imaged her.


	13. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

They remained in the apartment above the parlor even after the wedding. Neither of them could bear to part with a place that held so many happy memories for them.

Even so, a couple of years later they began looking for a new place on that giddy, surreal walk back from the doctor's office.

They closed on a large, three-story Victorian row house overlooking the bay, the ones that were on Corona's historic registry and prominently featured in postcards from the island nation. It was only a few short blocks from his parlor and they commuted to work together, taking turns pushing the stroller. She had long outgrown the small broom closet workspace he had carved out for her on the first floor of the parlor and settled upstairs, converting their old apartment into a proper art studio.

He began working daytime hours, leaving the late night shift and all the craziness that went along with it to his still single employees. He had a pet chameleon, a house with a white picket fence, a wife, a newborn daughter and another child on the way; he and Rapunzel had submitted paperwork to adopt an eight-year-old boy from the local orphanage and were eagerly awaiting a response any day now. It was an unusual, settled, domesticated existence for a tattoo artist with sleeves and several piercings, but he couldn't be happier and he wouldn't change a thing. His life was perfect.

* * *

**AN1:** If you liked **Inked**, there is now a companion ficlet, **Disclosure **(it's in my profile). It's where Rapunzel discovers who her real parents are and takes place during and after this epilogue.

**AN2:** Thank you guys for all the support and feedback, I've read, loved, and appreciated every single review. That being said, the perfect attendance award goes to *drum roll* . . . **Jade1994** for reviewing every single chapter, even the boring ones. I will reward you with . . . . aforementioned Smut! I've started that one-shot you requested several reviews ago. You can claim your prize as soon as I figure out how to write steamy (instead of sweet) love scenes. The first draft isn't looking too hot. *Ahem*

**AN3:** The following chapters are a series of Inked!Drabbles that didn't quite fit into the storyline. I hope you'll read them too and as always, please review.


	14. Inked Drabble: Splotches

(So **Inked** the story is complete, but I have these two requests for **Inked** one-shots. I thought it would be easier if I posted them here instead of as part of my **Romantic Entanglements** drabbles. I hope you guys don't mind.)

**Title:** Splotches  
**Rating:** M  
**Word Count: **5,064  
**Prompter:** Jade1994  
**Prompt: **This drabble was written for **Jade1994** who requested a smutty one shot after reading this line from **Inked**: "He knew this wasn't going to be mind-blowing, earth-shattering, check the headboard for claw marks and use a broomstick to fetch your clothes from the ceiling fan sex." ~ **Inked**, Ch. 8. I hope you like it.  
**NB:** If you've read **Inked**, you'll know exactly who the narrator of this story is and how things turned out for her. This drabble takes place the same night as Ch. 1.

* * *

**Splotches**

I remember the first time I saw him. I knew I wanted him. I knew I wanted him before I knew what I wanted him for.

At sixteen, I started spending summers in my father's tattoo parlor. My parents weren't actually divorced. They'd never been married. My mother was not from around here. She was a spoilt, rich socialite with a peripatetic streak and my conservative grandmother practically had a conniption when her 19 year-old daughter brought home a souvenir from her monthlong vacation in Corona: me.

I was born eight months later at my grandmother's lavish estate in the hinterlands. People laugh when I tell them I grew up with tutors and piano lessons and a stable full of prized ponies. It's not the kind of backstory you'd expect from a girl with several piercings and colorful tattoos.

My father's identity was kept a secret from me for most of my life. That is, until my sixteenth birthday when I ran away from home with my birth certificate in hand and decided to track the man down.

I was already taller than my father the first time we met. To my disappointment, I had outgrown all of the boys my age, not that my overprotective grandmother would let any of them come near me. She was hellbent on making sure I avoided the same mistake my mother had made: teenage motherhood.

The man listed on my birth certificate lived in a bungalow on the northern part of the island. He was a tattoo artist whose parlor was out back, adjacent to the structure. The parlor had both a street entrance and an entrance to my father's home.

My father and I bared no physical resemblance. He was a short, stocky man with a thick carpet of black, course chest hair sticking out from underneath the wife-beaters that were the staple of his wardrobe. My father wore undershirts the way most men wore a suit and tie to work and he had more hair on his chest than on his cue ball head. How he ever managed to bed my drop-dead beautiful mother will forever be a mystery to me. I had assumed their union had been a onetime deal, fueled by copious amounts of alcohol. But once, he let it slip that they had spent some time together while she was in Corona and they had even corresponded briefly afterwards.

Did I mention he was inked? He had the most fantastical designs on his arms, neck and back. I had always had a talent for art. Something I inherited from him. My grandmother nurtured it by hiring the best tutors money could buy and providing me with a traditional art education. I had studied the masters since before I could pick up a paintbrush, but nothing prepared me for my father's own masterpieces. They would walk in and out of his parlor all day. I had never seen anything like them and despite our differences my father will forever be my favorite artist.

I took after my mother in the looks department - supermodel thin, an ample rack and pin straight hair the color of India ink that ran down my back like a waterfall. I inherited my mother's arctic blue eyes. The ones I found so cold and distant when she looked at me. The ones that felt so strange and foreign when they looked back at me in the mirror.

Despite being praised for my classical beauty and having been compared to a china doll my entire life, I had never felt comfortable in the skin I was born in. It wasn't until I started decorating it with ink that the real me was able to break through, that I was able to show the person I really was inside. Tattoos are about expression and I was finally able to find my voice. Mine were liberating, I was a living, breathing work of art.

Once the paternal cat had been let out of the bag and, at my grandmother's insistence, the results of the DNA test had come in, my parents agreed to an informal joint custody arrangement where I spent summers here in Corona and the rest of the time with my grandmother at the villa.

Those were the circumstance that lead to our lives crossing paths.

###

I will never forget that day. The day he walked into my father's parlor and tried to get his first tattoo. My father kicked him out of course, he was clearly underage and even with his fake ID, he didn't fool anyone.

That day, I had been in the back room, sitting at my father's drafting table revising a design I had been working on all summer. I had inherited my father's talent for art and his perfectionist tendencies. It was both a blessing and a curse and the floor beneath me was littered with crumpled papers.

From my perch, I had a clear view of the front door. There was an old cowbell that hung from the handle and it would rattle every time someone crossed the threshold. It was a constant sound in the parlor, like the buzz of the machines, or the loud angsty music that always played in the background. I had learned to ignore it, like all the other background noises. But for reasons unknown, I looked up when the bell rattled and saw him. I knew in that instance that I would never be the same. My heart wanted him so fiercely that it desperately tried to break out of its bony cage.

He wasn't the man whose muscled chest and strong, tattooed arms pinned me down against the mattress years later. Not back then. He was tall for his age, but hadn't reached his full height and his trademark goatee was nothing more than a bit of peach fuzz at the end of his chin. And he was lanky, oh so lanky. He hadn't filled out yet the way he did the next time I saw him and his concert tee and second hand jeans hung on him like a coat rack.

The kid looked like he'd skipped a few meals wherever it was he came from. He may have skipped a few baths too. There was dirt under his fingernails, his knuckles were scratched and there was a scab just above his eyebrow that told me he was a fighter, that he was no stranger scrapping and struggling for the few things he had. It was like that saying about life giving you lemons, except in Flynn's case nothing was ever handed to him and he had to fight tooth and nail just to squeeze the juice out of life.

Even back then, he was beautiful. He was the most beautiful boy I had ever laid eyes on. His nose was the first thing I noticed about him. It made the perfectionist in me want to sketch it and capture it on paper before he was gone. It was straight as an arrow and sat prominently, proudly on his face in a way that made the rest of his handsome face arrange itself around this one eye-catching feature. His brows where thick and expressive and dark lush, lashes framed his eyes. Then there were his eyes. Those eyes. I've never seen anything like them. If mine were cold and distant, his were blazing with heat; it was the difference between fire and ice. If I closed my eyes now, I could still see them - smoldering, like liquid gold and so deep I could loose myself in them even if he always kept the drapes tightly shut on the windows to his soul.

The sides of his head were shaved so close I could see his scalp. His hair stood up in spikes along the top of his head in a brilliant shade of teal. It was years before he went back to his natural chestnut color and grew it out. This was before he learned girls liked something to hold on to when they screamed out his name in ecstasy. I later experienced that joy first hand, when I became one of those girls, one of the many.

He made an impression on me when he walked into the parlor. And he must've made an impression on the old man because three years later when I started my apprenticeship, he was there.

###

It didn't take long before we started messing around. There was a marked spike in female clientele the day my father took Flynn on as an apprentice. They were pretty, young girls who'd giggle whenever they saw him. The bolder ones were willing to submit themselves to his then inexperienced tattoo machine just for a chance to spend a little alone time with him. I knew they were silly girls who meant nothing to him, but my vision still turned green with envy every time he closed the door to his workroom. However fleeting and meaningless the experience, I knew I wanted a piece of it.

He wasn't my first. Far from it. I had turned in my v-card well before him. That honor had gone to the stable boy, for no other reason than he was there and he was my age. But Flynn marked the first time I did it with someone I was head over heels in love with.

His body was a work of art which he proudly displayed. He was as perfect on the outside as he was broken on the inside; as available as he was inaccessible. And it only made me want him more.

It wasn't just the flat planes of his chest, those chiseled abs, or that magnificent ass that would put a danseur to shame. It was also his ink. His artwork made him more beautiful. It added an extra dimension to an already complex piece of work. That was exactly what I called him, a piece of work. He was my father's work of art. Flynn wouldn't let anyone else ink him.

At the time, my father was working on a large tattoo of a ship on Flynn's back. I remember my breath hitched when I took off his shirt. My father had already finished the outline and most of the shading. Flynn was being super secretive about it. He was super secretive about the meaning behind all of his tattoos. He would change the subject whenever I asked him about them. It only made me want to study them harder. I wanted to find some clue, some key to understanding him better.

Despite being experienced, I still felt nervous the first time he put his hands on my shoulders and cradled my neck as he kissed me.

I couldn't say how it happened, I was too intoxicated by the wonders of his mouth to notice, but he'd backed me up until my calves brushed up against the old leather couch in the waiting area of the parlor. He sat me down on the armrest and seconds later I felt his calloused hands coaxing my knees apart. I needed very little encouragement. He roughly pushed the fabric of my short, black skirt up until his thumbs were able to carefully brush over the hem of my skimpy underwear. He acted like this was his final destination. His hands lingered there as he continued his assault on my lips, never quite advancing his fingers to where I wanted them be. After a short while, I had grown so frustrated, I wanted to scream.

I mentally cursed myself for wearing underpants and I decided right then and there to rid myself of this odious habit. I knew it wasn't shyness that kept his hands from breaching the fabric. He was toying with me. He was playing with his food and I was growing impatient. He meandered about, his fingers tracing the lace of my underwear like he had no intention of threading them through the leg holes, until I grabbed both his hands and shoved them in.

He stopped kissing me then, so he could smirk and call me impetuous. The truth was that I was on fire and desperately needed to be put out. But he knew that then, his fingers had come in contact with the puddle of want that had accumulated between my legs. He mercifully removed the offending garment, his hands tracing the shape of my long legs in the process, but left my skirt in place, hiked up over my hips and concealing nothing from him.

The way he stared at me through half-lidded eyes, unabashedly and unapologetically, made my knees weak and part of me wondered whether he had purposely sat me on the armrest for this very reason, because he'd done this before, because he knew he had this affect on women, because he knew I would've toppled over if I wasn't sitting down.

I felt emboldened by his searing gaze and I spread my legs wider for him, pushing my hips forward so he would be able to get better look. His eyes didn't linger there, he wasn't an inexperienced school boy making out with the first girl who'd let him steal third base. Instead, he stepped into the space I'd created for him between my thighs and resumed kissing me while he unbuttoned my top and pushed it off my shoulders. His touch was hot, insistent and oh so sexy.

Eager to unwrap my present, I shoved my hands under his fitted t-shirt and lifted it over his head. I noticed a lowercase "e" in old English script above his left pectoral muscle and he pulled my fingers away when I tried to trace it. I got the suspicion he didn't want me to touch him there, so I moved on to unbuttoning his jeans and removing his boxers. Despite he cool, detached exterior, it was now undeniably evident that I'd had an effect on him. It was now my turn to smirk at him and I did so with more than a tinge of satisfaction.

I had fantasized about what it would be like to have sex with him, of course. It's probably something every woman he's come across except his mother or sister, if he has one, has done at one point or another. My fantasy Flynn had been gentler than the real thing. His hands didn't squeeze the sides of my legs until I was certain I'd find bruises the shape of large handprints the next morning. He didn't deliberately rake his short fingernails across my back when he unhooked my bra. And he didn't seek one of my nipples out with his teeth so that I was teetering on edge both exhilarated by the sensation and at the same time terrified he would bite down. He was nothing compared to reality. Reality Flynn was better than anything I couldn't imagined.

He leaned into me and I could feel his erection pressing against my thigh. It was too much for my overloaded senses to bear and I toppled over so that my back now rested on the seat cushions beneath me. He waited until I was settled before reaching down for a foil wrapper in the back pocket of the jeans that now lay on the floor and climbed over the armrest to join me.

He didn't throw himself on top of me the way some men did. When he settled himself over me he kept most of his weight on his elbows and knees so that I didn't have to bear the brunt of it. His body was solid and heavier than his slender build suggested. His consideration was something I hadn't expected. Years later I developed a theory that Flynn liked it rough because he didn't want women to make this into something it wasn't. It was his way of reminding them that this was just sex. It was his way of not leading them on. I can say this with absolute certainty, it didn't work.

Despite his roughness, he was graceful. His touch wasn't clumsy or bumbling, and I never once felt like he was groping me as his hands charted my body for the first time. He positioned himself in place and my heart stopped when he looked up at me with those smoldering eyes of his. I could see how girls could get the wrong idea about his intentions. I could see how they could fall in love with him when he touched them like this. Despite his not so gentle manner and his bad boy exterior, he was a considerate lover. He was silently asking permission to enter when I was already writhing beneath him and every molecule in my body was begging him to do so. With one swift push he was inside me.

We fucked on the old leather couch in the waiting area of the parlor. A moan escaped my lips, my fingers digging into his shoulders as he established a rhythm. I felt one of his hands gripping my ass, while the other found my breast all the while he licked, bit and sucked the delicate skin of my neck. It was too much for me to bear and I unraveled in no time, but he kept going. He didn't give me a chance to recuperate, to regain my senses before he had me falling apart again. Finally, after I felt like I was going to go mad from the continuous assault on my senses, I felt him stiffen above me, flooding the thin latex sheath that separated us.

Afterwards, we both glanced at the door that led the my father's bungalow and knew we had to find another place to hook up.

###

The next time we did it, Flynn took me back to his place precisely because we both knew the parlor and my room at bungalow were off limits. It made me feel like his girlfriend, even if we both knew the reason he brought me here had more to do with my father than any romantic feelings he most certainly did not reciprocate.

He lived in a shoebox. He had a paid apprenticeship, but it barely covered the bills. The little money he had leftover came from selling his art. He could've gotten a bigger place, if he had taken on roommates, but Flynn had always been a loner.

No one gets rich off an apprenticeship. We were in my father's parlor to learn and after a couple of years we would go our separate ways. It was a thought that chilled my veins and I purposely ignored it.

Flynn's place was just big enough for his bed, a kitchenette he used only to fry eggs and to brew coffee, and the smallest bathroom I have ever seen. The rest of the place was only slightly larger than the bathroom. Not that I cared. I was happy that the only place to sit was on his bed, it was exactly where I wanted to be.

The place wasn't dirty exactly, but it was untidy. His sheets were threadbare and mismatched and his bed was better suited for a dorm room at Corona U, but his apartment was my favorite place in the whole world. I always got this nervous energy when he brought me there. Years later, after he'd moved out of the place, we would meet in hotel rooms. While the sex was always amazing, it lacked the same intimacy that the four walls of his apartment allowed me to imagine. He lives in a different apartment now and much to my disappointment, he's never once offered to take me there.

###

My mother's accidental foray into single parenthood was the reason I've been on the pill since menarche. It was a precautionary measure, an over the top, reactionary measure, not that I begrudge my grandmother watching me like a hawk. I had always been a free spirit, an uncontainable wildfire, and she had good reason to make sure my tightrope walking always came with a safety net.

In the end, the measure proved to be overkill because Flynn was a stickler for protection. I knew he was clean. He got tested regularly, we both did; it was required practice in the industry working with needles and bodily fluids and airborne pathogens. He _always_ used a condom, I didn't have to hassle him about it. It was a nice change from some of the other guys I dated. The ones I forced myself to be with because the thought of being in a one-sided monogamous relationship was just too pathetic to bear.

Once he had made us stop because he'd realized the box he kept in the drawer of the nightstand was empty. He'd said the orphanage was overrun with enough byproducts of one nightstands and he'd be damned if he contributed to it. It was an odd remark to make. I mean, _who thinks about stuff like that? _But then again, I never claimed to understand the way his mind works. He finished me off with his deft hands and by then I wasn't thinking much of anything.

###

When he told me he was thinking of getting an apadravya, I damn near shed happy tears. I was accustomed to metal, apas and ampas, PAs and ladders. Body modifications were common among the people in my industry and pierced men were one of the many perks of my dating pool. Flynn was already perfect, but adding a barbell to the mix was like adding nice rims to a sports car: it wasn't strictly necessary, but it enhanced the experience.

The recovery time was brutal. I was counting down the days the way a kid watched the calendar as summer vacation approached. I saw it as a unique opportunity. I wasn't his first, I couldn't be his only, but I was determined to be the first one to test drive his new equipment.

###

Anyone who's been with him will tell you that Flynn is bossy in bed. He is confident, rough, and _always_ in control. Sex is on his terms. He's not the kind of guy that makes love to a woman. In fact, I can't even imagine him referring to the act as lovemaking. And when he comes, it's because he wants to, it's not because he is so caught up in the moment that he loses himself.

His kisses are purposeful. They are hard and well-timed and strategically placed to get me to the boiling point. There's no mistaking them for genuine affection. And he has always been stingy with them, giving out just enough to get me to where he needs me to be and not one more. But I've figured out a way to get more out of him. I've always screamed in bed, but with Flynn it served a secondary purpose. It was the only surefire way to get him to kiss me, to seize my mouth the way a lover would. The walls of his apartment were paper thin and it was all he could do to keep me from waking the neighbors.

You would think that these were qualities that would make a person terrible in bed. You'd think that great sex would be about love and soft caresses and tender words. He did none of those things, yet he set the high watermark by which every other man I've been with has paled in comparison. And it's not just my opinion. Even back then, there were plenty of women who held him in high esteem, a persistent band of groupies that liked to hang around the parlor looking for scraps.

Finding my clothes in his messy apartment afterwards was always a scavenger hunt. I found my bra once hanging from its strap on the blade of his ceiling fan. The lighting was inevitably poor and and I took my time doing so. Sometimes, if I took long enough we'd fall back into bed together for another go. He'd ground his hips against mine as my body delightedly sunk into the worn mattress under his weight.

###

To this day I don't know if my father knows what went on between Flynn and I during our two-year apprenticeship. We messed around at his apartment, but Flynn never once spent the night in my bedroom at my father's place.

My father wasn't your stereotypical overprotective dad and I had never been daddy's little princess. We were more like seasonal roommates. When I was older, I brought men home with me and he didn't flinch. But somehow, I think bringing Flynn home would've been different. I know my father loves him like the son he'd wished he'd had.

###

Flynn only got better with time. My body is a testament to that fact. I've let him ink me dozens of times now. The marks he's left on me range from promising novice to tattoo virtuoso.

My father knew Flynn was talented. It's why he brought him on and took him under his tatted wing. It's why he rolled the dice on a punk with a sketchy background and no shortage of juvy offenses.

Flynn's style was different from my father's. It was raw and edgy and angry and he drew his art from a place inside him I would never now. He was a closed book. His expression unreadable. You only see what he lets you see and even then the stars in the heavens had to practically align for you to catch a glimpse of the man inside.

I knew he was troubled. I recognized it just like I recognized he was trouble. Whatever his demons were, they were locked away inside him, in a place so dark no one would ever see them and no amount of whiskey would get him to talk about it. Believe me. I tried.

I long ago accepted the fact that I would only know the surface Flynn. The part that he chooses to show people. I accepted whatever fragments or scraps he was willing to give me.

I also accepted that there would be other women in his life. As much as I thought of him as mine, he couldn't reciprocate the feeling. Monogamy was not something he was interested in and so I lied through my teeth and told him that no stings attached sex was exactly what I was looking for.

I slept with other men, of course. But it was more to pass the time while he was otherwise engaged. My body didn't yearn for them, the way it did for him, like a drug addict looking for the next fix. My body didn't writhe with other men the way it did under him. I would come to him like a parishioner exercising her demons the only way she knew how.

###

It's been years since Flynn and I finished our apprenticeships and went our separate ways. We have both moved on. He opened up his own parlor down by the wharf. I hear it's called "Inked" and that people are lining up around the block just to get through the door.

From time to time we still meet up and mostly fuck for old times sake. It's comforting to know that he's still uncommitted. It means there's nothing wrong with me. It means he's physically incapable of settling down with one woman and I can live with that. I don't know what I'd do if he ever did meet a special someone; if one woman lay claim to his heart. The thought is as unsettling as it is preposterous. Flynn Rider is indomitable. They'd declare a snow day in hell before that ever happened.

I had been groomed to take over my father's parlor. His health had never been the greatest and he was already close to retirement age when he mentored Flynn and I. My father eventually retired, but I never did take over his business. I started aimlessly traveling instead. I've never wanted for material things. My grandmother's vast fortune has assured me a more than comfortable life and despite the empty threats she's made after each successive tattoo, I don't believe her capable of cutting me of.

If she ever did make good on her threats, I suppose I could fall back on my art, but I never had it in me to gnash my teeth and fight for something the way Flynn did. I don't know what his home life was like; he's never been one to talk about his backstory. In fact, the easiest way to get him to retract into an impenetrable facade of caddishness and charm is to ask him about it.

I've never hungered for material things the way Flynn did. The only thing I ever hungered for was him.

###

I've been in love with the same man since I was sixteen years old. I've never told him. I know he doesn't feel the same way I do. I know he can't reciprocate. But that's okay. I take what I can get from him. I know that's all he can give and I'm fine with that. Somehow knowing that he doesn't love anyone, can't love anyone is a comforting thought. It validates the concessions I've made for him. It's just who he is, broken and jaded and beautifully tortured. And I accept him for that.

We've agreed to meet up tonight in the bar in the lobby of my hotel. The lighting is low and the place is richly decorated in silk jewel tones. It really sets the mood. There are no pretenses between us, we both know we'll kick back a couple shots and head up to my room. I got a tongue piercing since we last saw each other and I'm dying to run it over his barbell.

I impatiently glance at my wrist watch and pout like the spoilt princess I used to be. I've never liked waiting for something I want, especially for him. I've got a plane to catch in the morning, but with Flynn that's never a problem. As much as I want him to, he doesn't stick around after we're done.

I summon the handsome, flirty bartender, or mixologist as he insists I call him, and ask to borrow his telephone. A moment later he brings over one of those antique rotary dial models on a silver tray. I dial the only number I have for him, the one for his parlor and feel a surge of excitement when he doesn't pick up after the sixth ring. It means he's done with his last client and he's on his way here.

I take a sip of my drink to quell my nerves. I can't wait to see him, I can't wait to be in his arms again.

* * *

**AN1: **I had originally tried to fill this prompt with Rapunzel, but I feel like Inked!Flynn would treat her like a delicate flower. I think he'd have a tough time psychologically being rough with her in bed, even if she asked him for it. I don't see him taking her any other way.

**AN2: **I decided to try the first person voice for this drabble mostly because I've never named this character and I don't have to call her anything if she's the narrator. This seemed like a good idea, right? Well, I wrote the sex scene last because those are always really hard for me to write. That's when I realized that first person voice is super, duper awkward when your characters are having sex, but by then I had written almost 4,000 words of the story and it was too late to change everything else. Oh well. Learning experience.

**AN3: **The next **Inked** drabble is called **Movie Night**. It's Flynn x Rapunzel and it is also smutty. I have to work on chapter 2 of **Disclosure**, so don't expect it any time soon. Let me know what you guys think, please leave a review.


	15. Inked Drabble: Movie Night

**Title:** Movie Night  
**Rating:** M  
**Word Count: **2,999  
**Prompter:** Anonymous request submitted to tangledfics tumblr  
**Prompt: **Rapunzel and Flynn watch a movie that brings up traumatic memories and gives Rapunzel a panic attack.  
**NB:** This one-shot takes place between chapter 6 and chapter 8 of **Inked**, meaning they've fooled around (a lot) but they haven't actually done it yet.

* * *

**Movie Night**

He had always loved sitting on his couch watching campy horror flicks with a bowl of popcorn balancing on one knee. It was his favorite thing to do after work on the nights he decided to stay home and skip the posh bars and clubs across town. His shift at the tattoo parlor ended at midnight and when he was done for the night, he'd sometimes stay up watching movies with a beer bottle in one hand and his bare feet propped up on his coffee table. He'd watch two or three movies at a time until he saw the sun come up through the large, twin rectangular windows of his living room. He used to think it was the perfect way to unwind. But sitting around on his couch watching campy horror flicks with _her_ was even better.

Before her, watching movies on his couch had been strictly a solitary activity. When he used to bring women back to his apartment, he did so with one stated purpose and it wasn't to watch movies with him in his living room; those had been more bedroom appropriate activities, although he didn't always limit himself to that space. The shower stall and the kitchen floor were equally well suited locations. But with Rapunzel he had learned that he could relax and let his guard down. He had learned that he could be himself around her and by the time their relationship had gradually led up to the brink of his bedroom, he genuinely cared about her.

As he had gotten to know her, he'd also learned that they had many shared interests. For starters, they both liked to read. Eugene was an avid reader; a fact almost no one knew about him. Something about his tatts, his profession, and his all around bad boy veneer made people assume he was unacquainted with the written word. For most of her life, Rapunzel had exactly three books. She'd read them thousands of times and could recite them chapter and verse which was why when she came across the stacks of books that Eugene kept in neat little piles around his apartment she began reading them voraciously.

He had learned that they were both artists. Eugene's medium was skin. His creations were dark and gritty, often accompanied by harsh, angry lines. He'd harnessed the turmoil of his restless youth and had channelled it into creating original works of art his clients could proudly display on their bodies. Rapunzel, on the other hand, liked to work with pastel paints. She preferred murals and her style could be described as whimsical. She liked to create happy, idealized tableaus of the way life ought to be lived. While their styles were very different, conveying opposite emotions, art was something they both had in common.

He had also learned that they both liked watching movies. The tower she'd grown up in was medieval to put it mildly. There were no television sets; there wasn't so much as a light socket. Eugene was getting the sneaking suspicion with every new detail she revealed to him about her life in those confined, spherical digs that it wasn't the electric bill the old hag she had lived with was worried about. He was becoming more and more convinced that her selectively reclusive, bat-shit crazy mother was hiding from something or someone in the remote, vast denseness of the nature preserve which shrouded the tower. As a result, the first movie Rapunzel had ever seen was one of Eugene's horror flicks. He, on the other hand, had been collecting this genre as early as his first paycheck and he had been stealing them before then. He'd watched them so many times that he could quote all the dialogue and while he and Rapunzel had spent a good many late nights watching them, they'd hardly made a dent in his sizable selection.

By now they had watched dozens of movies together. They had seen movies about mummies, invisible men, werewolves, vampires, blobs and Eugene's personal favorite: zombies. He loved watching these movies with her because she would squirm or yelp or cover her eyes at all the right moments, sometimes taking cover in his always receptive tattoo sleeved arms. He'd seen these movies so many times that he no longer reacted to them and when he did, he just laughed at the absurdity of the dialogue or the gaping plot holes.

But tonight he noticed she was a little stiff. Her posture was rigid and she was sitting up straighter than normal. Usually she'd snuggle up to his flank and he'd put his arm around her and play with her short, chocolate locks. But tonight she hadn't even crossed over to his seat cushion. He missed her warmth by his side and he was trying hard to resist the temptation of pulling her into a hug. He wasn't a touchy-feely kind of person. At least he didn't think he was, but for some reason he liked being close to her. He never thought about things like personal space when he was with her the way he was so conscious of it when he was around other people and he had noticed that he craved affection from her; it was both a new development and an unsettling one for him.

Tonight's movie was a little different from his usual monster fare. For starters, it had been released only a few years ago. The typical horror flick in his repertoire was several decades old, a prerequisite to becoming a cult classic, and full of terrible actors and low budget cinematography. Tonight's movie had been written by one of Eugene's favorite authors, a man who had made a name for himself writing horror and suspense novels that were later turned into screenplays and film adaptations.

There were no monsters in this film. No fantastical creatures that lived only in people's imaginations; there was only the kind of monster you'd encounter in real life.

The protagonist of the story was a writer who had been caught in a snow storm on his way to deliver his latest book to his publisher. His car had veered off the road and he'd been badly injured in the accident. When he came to, he found himself on a bed and was being cared for by a woman who claimed to be his number one fan. He soon realized that the woman was insane and that she was holding him captive, but was too wounded to get away from her. For most of the movie, the man plotted his escape only to have each successive attempt foiled by this deranged, miserable person.

Rapunzel watched the entire movie in silence. He didn't hear the familiar gasps and squeals he had grown accustomed to. By the time the credits were rolling, so were the tears. It wasn't like Rapunzel to cry during a movie. His horror flicks weren't sad, they were ridiculous. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out why she had reacted so strongly to this one. Almost her entire life, she too had been held captive by someone who was at the very least mentally ill and undeniably abusive.

". . . Rapunzel. Look, I -," he couldn't even finish the sentence because she lunged herself at him. The suddenness of her kiss, the fierceness of it and the manner in which she sought his lips, took him by surprise and his eyes widened until he settled into it and kissed her back. He could feel her slender fingers make quick work of the buttons down the front of his shirt until she had exposed the barbells that ran through his pierced nipples and the tattoos that graced his bare chest and abdomen. Somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind he had the faint notion that this wasn't right and that he _had_ to stop her.

But instinct overpowered reason, at least for a little while, until the wheels in his head started working again. By then she'd managed to push his shirt off his shoulders so that the back of it was now pinned in the gap between his shoulder blades and the couch. He wasn't sure when it happened, but she'd already made quick work of his brown leather belts.

By now the credits had finished and the light from the television cast a constant blue glow on the room.

She unrolled the sleeves from his forearms and she rid him entirely of the offending garment before he finally stopped her.

He couldn't do this. Not like this. He let the hands that were now cupping her face, and should have been cupping her backside, slowly fall to her shoulders before he gently pushed her off of him.

He stopped her because there were tears trailing down her cheeks and no matter how badly he wanted her to do this, he didn't want her like this. Not when he could still taste the salt from her quiet, wet sobs on his lips.

"Rapunzel." He pleaded with her as he removed small hands from the waistband of his jeans.

As he extricated himself from the passionate grasp of this beautiful girl who wanted him, he was hit by the uncomfortable and unassailable fact that he was broken, or crazy, or both. Who wouldn't jump at this opportunity? The old him certainly would. But something had happened to his heart the night she stumbled into his parlor drunk and he'd never functioned the same way again. She had already broken his smolder, had she broken his libido as well?

"I think we should talk about this," he said as he rested his forehead on hers.

But she was not deterred by his words or his actions. Tonight she seemed determined to get what she wanted. She ignored him and began tugging at the zipper on the front of his jeans, not quite managing to unbutton the front flap of his boxers before he seized her small wrists in his much larger hands.

"_Rapunzel_. What are you doing?" It was a stupid question. He knew it was the minute it flew out of his mouth and he mentally berated himself because his voice came out sterner than he'd intended.

He'd never used that tone with her before and when he realized he was still griping her wrists, he let go of them abruptly like they were too hot to touch. He followed them with his amber gaze as they fell to her lap.

In that instant, Eugene could feel the blood drain from his face. He could feel the warmth being sucked out of the room as the familiarity of these circumstances began to settle over him.

He recognized the situation for what it was because he'd done it so many times before. He knew all about distractions. For a long time it had been his favorite way to self-medicate, to lose himself in the buildup and in the few heady moments of carnal bliss. It would take the pain away, at least for a little while. He knew all about distractions, but he didn't want to be one for her and he felt angry because she was making him feel like that's all he was to her. He wanted her to want him for him, not because he could make her forget her mother and her fucked up upbringing.

It had never been this way between them. The stuff he did with her, he did because he wanted to be with her, he liked her and he wanted to make her feel amazing. And the way she reciprocated told him she trusted him and she felt the same way. But this, this felt an awful lot like she wanted to lose herself temporarily in the fly of his jeans.

He slowly pushed her back further until she was sitting up again. When he was sure she wouldn't lose her balance and fall forward, he let go of her and began running his hands through his hair, a coping mechanism he'd developed in childhood and sometimes still resorted to without conscious thought when he was feeling really stressed.

A growing part of him wanted him to forget about it and just let her continue, to let her use him the way he'd used other people. But that wasn't what they were to each other. They had grown close in the time she'd spent in his apartment. He'd developed feelings for her. He cared about her. He had opened up to her. He'd told her things he'd never shared with anybody.

It was something he didn't think he could do, not since his parents died in that ferry accident. The logic was simple, one concocted by an eight-year-old orphan. He would never have to go through the pain of losing the people he loved, if he never loved anyone else again. At the time, that strategy seemed infallible and over the years the walls he had built around him had solidified until he was this impenetrable fortress, accessible to no one. That is, until he met her and his walls started coming down, slowly at first, brick by brick, and then all at once, until he was completely bared to her.

The situation tonight didn't make any sense to him. This wasn't like her. The Rapunzel he knew didn't use people to make herself feel better. Something wasn't right. The old Flynn wouldn't have stuck around to find out what was wrong with her; the old Flynn would've extricated himself from the situation. If a girl did something he didn't like, he would've split, pronto. But he hadn't been that guy for sometime now and she wasn't just some girl. She was his girlfriend, his first girlfriend and the only one he'd ever had. This relationship thing was new to her too, she was allowed to make mistakes without him bolting at the first sign of trouble.

He knew that for this to work out between them he needed to voice his feelings, they needed to talk this through. He needed to tell her what was bothering him. He needed to tell her that she'd made him feel shitty; but he had no experience with this kind of thing. For his sake, for their sake he knew he needed to get over his hangups about opening up to people and ask her.

"Rapunzel. Why are you doing this?" He blurted it out before he lost his nerve. He suddenly felt like the scared eight-year-old kid whose life had just been turned inside out instead of the successful 28-year-old man who was at the top of his profession.

He could see the crease forming in her brow as she stared at him like he'd spouted a second head.

"We always do -"

"No. What I mean is, why are you doing this _now_? Look. I know you're upset about the movie, but -"

"I just wanted to remind myself that you're here." She explained. "If you're here, that means she's not."

_Oh_. That vice-like grip he'd felt squeezing his heart suddenly released him, like an old rubber band snapping under the pressure of its contents, as he realized he had misunderstood the situation. He'd had it all wrong. She didn't want him to distract her from her troubles, she had wanted him to remind her that he was with her. She had wanted him for him and it made all the difference in the world.

It was all the explanation he needed from her as he threaded his hands through her short hair so he could support the back of her head while he kissed her. He felt relief and he felt joy in that kiss now that everything made sense again. If she was looking for a reminder that he was hers, he was more than happy to give it to her.

"I'm sorry," he murmured into the side of her neck as he kissed the soft, sensitive skin that lightly grazed against his lips. He could feel it react to his touch, growing warm and goosebumpy.

"What for?" She turned her head to look at him, confusion lingering in her cloudy gaze.

"For thinking your intentions were less than admirable."

She giggled as she ran her hands down his bare chest. "They _are_ less than admirable." The tone in her voice was playful and he could tell she was feeling better.

"I'm sorry for thinking that you just wanted to use me." He clarified, as he ghosted his scruffy goatee along the shell of her ear. He felt her shudder beneath him and he wasn't sure if it was a quiver in response to his gentle touch or a bristle in response to his unpleasant admission.

"_Use you_? Eugene, I would _never_ -"

"I know. I'm sorry I doubted you." He ran a hand under her shirt and she helpfully leaned in towards him so he could unhook her bra. She tugged at the shoulder straps and removed them through the armholes of her t-shirt, crossing her arms over her chest as she gripped the hem of her shirt in each hand and pulled it off of her.

When she kissed him again, he felt liquid warmth pool in the pit his stomach. She felt amazing against his bare chest as she climbed onto his lap and pressed herself closer to him. His hands cupped her backside as he tried to ignore the sun coming up through the twin rectangular windows of his living room.

* * *

**AN1:** I'm sorry some of you found **Splotches** (chapter 14) upsetting because it included a sex scene between Flynn and another woman years before he met Rapunzel. I promise you, my intent was not to upset anyone or "ruin" **Inked**. I'm going to make it up to you by writing that Flynn x Rapunzel smutty one-shot that you requested in a review to chapter 13. I hope we can make amends. In the meantime, chapter 2 of **Disclosure** is now up. Please review.

**AN2:** Disney-Prince-Fans group on DA is holding a writing contest for modern day fan art and fan fics of the Disney princes. I'm thinking of submitting **Movie Night** as my entry. If you want to enter the contest, there's a post about it on my tangledfics tumblr. The deadline is May 24, 2013.


	16. Inked Drabble: Misunderstanding

**Title:** Misunderstanding  
**Rating:** M  
**Word Count: **595  
**NB:** This short little drabble takes place between chapter 6 and chapter 8 of **Inked**; i.e., he hasn't dropped the L-word yet.

* * *

**Misunderstanding**

"You've got to be kidding me." Rapunzel exclaimed in disbelief.

"What?!" Eugene said defensively, knowing full well what she was complaining about.

"I'm sorry. I can't help it, we're in close quarters here," he said. Not feeling nearly as sorry as he claimed he was.

They had just started watching a movie and were spooning on the couch, the one Eugene spent a good number of weeks sleeping on when he first brought her to his apartment. They were both facing the television with Rapunzel's head tucked under his scruffy chin and her back resting against his chest. The rest of their bodies sort of fell into place. It was that sort of alignment that had given the part of Eugene that seemed to have a mind of its own the wrong idea.

They had been messing around like this for weeks and in a way it was a relief that he no longer had to take cover behind the back of the couch or stand at the kitchen counter until things returned to normal.

"We just took care of _this_ this morning." She reminded him.

"Now you're just adding fuel to the fire." He told her as he closed his eyes and tried to recall in as much vivid detail as possible the events of this morning, a broad smile spread across his lips.

"Look. Just ignore it. It'll go away." He suggested helpfully.

"It's kind of hard to ignore," she said, referring to the insistent pressure on her lower back that didn't seem to be dissipating.

Eugene snickered sophomorically into her shoulder blade.

"Fine," she said resignedly as she reached back to take hold of the situation.

She unbuttoned his jeans and pushed the waist band past his narrow hips, but other than separating the straining center snap, she'd left his boxers in place. He could deal with the resulting mess later, she'd told him. But Eugene had never been a selfish lover and had no intent on this being a one-sided transaction.

"Happy now?" She asked after they were both sweaty and out of breath.

He smiled up at her and extended both hands to cup her face, "Only when I'm with you."

Rapunzel gasped, her eyes widened in shock and disbelief. "Did you just use one of your Flynn Rider lines on me?" She chided and then tried to smother him with the nearest object within arm's reach - a cushion, one of those colorful accent pieces that tied the room together and made it obvious that his formerly drab bachelor pad, much like his life, had received a very needed woman's touch.

Eugene laughed at her wide-eyed indignant outrage as he effortlessly removed the pillow she was holding down over his handsome face. He'd been entirely too honest with her in confessing the litany of his past sins.

"It's not a line, Rapunzel. It's the honest truth."

He was being sincere, but she didn't seem to believe him. It didn't help matters that he'd mangled the delivery because he'd still been chuckling over her attempts to smother him with a heliotrope-colored pillow. He wasn't hurt by her lack of faith in his feelings for her; he could live with her skepticism. He of all people understood that unhappy childhoods often resulted in trust issues. Eugene Fitzherbert was a patient man and he liked a challenge. He'd prove it to her. He'd bide his time and show her how he felt about her until she too came to the same realization that she meant everything to him and that he'd never been happier.

* * *

**AN:** This silly little drabble is not the one-shot prompt-fill I've been working on for **Inked**. But since it's taking me longer to write that one (and to update **Disclosure**) than anticipated, I thought I'd leave you with something to make up for my lack of updates.


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